The Day After

The day after always begins with a heavy heart.

Empty side of bed.  Full pillow.  Breakfast for one.  Silent telephone. 
Just pictures.  God forbid, we lose our minds.  We lose our minds, we lose those pictures.  The day after begins a lifetime of looking through old photo albums. 

Mom cried for a worthless man.  And I cried for my own.  Neither of us know why. 

The I love yous stop.  Or the hope the I love yous begin, ends.  The day after makes orphans of us all.  Even bastards like myself.  God forbid, we go first.  I suppose there's comfort knowing everyone has a day after.

The day after is not an event.  Or just a passing moment.  It's a realization.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel? 

Birthdays.  Christmas.  Anniversaries.  They come and go.  Empty vessels pass through the night.  We call them dreams.  The day after those dreams have a consistent theme.  With familiar faces.  God forbid, we lose our sleep.  We lose that sleep, we lose those dreams.   The day after begins a lifetime of tossing and turning.

Everything is instantaneously different.  Not worse.  Not better.  Just different.  Summer to autumn.  Autumn to winter.  Winter to spring.  The day after is one long day until we become someone else's day after.

The day after is a crucifixion and a resurrection of hope and hopelessness.  Of what was and what ifs.  Guilt hangs on a cross.  Not for three days.  Memories wander an endless desert.  Not for 40 days and 40 nights.  I suppose there's comfort in knowing life does not last forever.  God forbid, we recognize the mercy when time stops.  We lose that perspective, we lose our grace.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel?

The day after begins a retelling of old stories.  Dusted off the mantle in our minds. 

Old sitcoms feel brand new.  Comedies make us laugh harder.  And cry, as well.  God forbid, we shut off this channel that plays over and over in our heads.  We lose those stories, we lose those characters once again.  I suppose there's comfort in reruns.

The day after makes lifetime mourners of us all.  Even fools as myself.  God forbid, we build walls.  We lose those walls, we lose those bridges.  God forbid, we are ever human.

The love yous stop.  Or the hope the I love yous begin, ends.  The I miss yous are whispered in a crowded room.  Ghosts wander across our paths.  And we feel so alone.   God forbid, we admit our loneliness.  God forbid, we speak to ghosts.  I suppose there's comfort in believing in something.

Who breaks the butterfly on a wheel?

The day after never ends.


The day after never ends.

God forbid, it ever does.