"Let me tell you what happens when you cook down the syrup of loss over the open fire of sorrow: It solidifies into something else. Not grief, like you'd expect, or even regret. No, it gets thick as paste, black as ash; yet it isn't until you dip a finger in and feel that sharp taste dissolving on your tongue that you realize this is anger in its purest form, unrefined; a substance to be weighed and measured and spread.
I thought of you when I read this paragraph today.
This is a tribute to you, who lost someone you cherished. A loss so true that it has to be a nightmare. A loss that makes trouble with the mother-in-law or a difficult boss seem microscopic in comparison. A loss that makes you angry that the world still spins without him; people can still smile and sing and dance, but you can't. Not like you did.
Every second that passes is a miracle. You look back and don't know how you made it to where you are, to how you are. And it will never be the same; you know it, but you have to trick your mind into thinking it will be okay, because if you don't, you just might not make it to the next miracle.
This is a tribute to the one who is drowning in the syrup of loss, who has to force her eyes to see the light at the end of the tunnel because it is either too dim to see, or not there at all.
We are drowning with you, and for you.