News of his death has knocked me over,
punched me in the stomach,
weakened my knees,
taken the breath from my lungs,
dizzied my head,
and left me
confused;
catspraddled.
Who knew that never being able to
share with him
another joke, another story,
another fete, another drive,
another beach, another confidence,
would produce such a gaping wound?
Who knew that it would take his death
to teach me that liking,
feeling comfortable with,
trusting, sharing,
relying on, looking forward to seeing,
teasing, laughing with,
swimming, dancing or sitting beside,
combined together
spell “love”?
Who knew that not remembering
a single instance when
I told him “I love you”
would hurt like a paper cut
as long as my body?
From now on,
I will speak of my appreciation
in a timely manner.
Let folks whisper that I am
a sentimental silly-billy.
Let friends tell me
“give it a rest”.
Let me be embarrassed
to say I care.
A thousand times better
such discomforts,
than even one more instance
of sorrow
and wishing I had stated
how strongly I felt.
-----
Sharain Ward has been writing since the 1980s. Her writing explores her surroundings, people and life through the prism of her Caribbean background.
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