FlashmobWrites gives you a choice of two different prompts, both taken from the lyrics of a song (which you can also use for inspiration, or ignore as you see fit).
For Week 1.12 the prompts were
Cara Michaels: and lonely these nights
Ruth Long: I breathe you in
This one ended up cutting pretty close to home. There were a lot of sad entries this week, so I wasn’t the only one who took a turn for the maudlin.
I breathe you in, the faintest hint of your scent still lingering on your pillow, unused this past week.
Never to be used again.
I won’t wash it, except with my tears. I’ve done that many times already but still the salt water wells up like the sea, limitless and unending.
It is these little touches of you that anchor me, that I cling to – distraught me is better than old me, the me before we – and I hang on bitterly… all definitions of that word disturbingly, distressingly relevant. If I ever needed you before, then with an oath that puts my past swearing to shame, I need you now. I always will.
I fear what will happen when time blunts my grief. I don’t want it to, I rage at how unfair it is, but as everyone has been telling me, time, time, time heals all wounds. Instead of consoling me this platitude sends me deeper into despair. Your face will blur in my mind, softened by temporal distance. Does that mean your fingerprints on my soul, the gentle reshaping of me from what I was to what you believed I could be will also revert? That I’ll sublimate back into the siren call and stupor of the bottle and booze? The demon you delivered me from. You were my saviour, my solace. What good is a benediction if it doesn’t last? Redemption revoked is a cruel joke.
Self-recrimination burns, my thoughts should be of you, not myself. Or that other hackneyed phrase: think of the children. They’ll need me even more now. Surely I should be weeping for them. I’m grateful to your parents for picking up the slack, since… since… I’m grateful. I know it can’t last, that I’ve got to rise above it. As you would. As you would want me to. Expect me to. Hope I would.
They’re hurting too, but they don’t really understand.
The three-year-old is enjoying all the distractions, how could she not? I don’t blame her. Not much. How do you explain with proper gravitas that mummy’s not coming back when people are providing her with balloons another small joys? They mean well I am sure. I envy her smiles, so much like yours.
The tiny one cries, reaching out for arms that can’t enfold her (that can’t enfold me) throwing my incompetence as a parent in stark relief. You were always better at everything. They need me, but they need you more. I need you more, an order of magnitude more.
Your mother and father were always distant in your stories of family life, they can’t grasp my loss. Some of that is cultural I am sure, but partially it’s because they don’t – no-one does – have the fervour we have.
I miss you.
From now till I join you, I’ll be alone and lonely these nights.