Left

Yesterday my uncle died. No, he wasn’t particularly old. Yes, it was sudden. Yes, my heart is breaking. And I’m thinking of the way grief comes, and scoops a hole where he used to be, and the way death sneaks up on us, every fucking time, and they way we are left wanting one more conversation. The way we are left wanting. The way we are left.

I am left without words, suddenly. I am left without him.

His daughters, his wife, his grandchildren – his friends – all of us are left, scooped out and hollow, while holes of various sizes take his place. The holes are what we are made of, now — what we have, what we are left with. This hollow place, the one we are left with, the one left for us. The one we are still gaping at. The one we reach across and find empty. The one we didn’t see coming.

The hole we kneel by, staggered.

The hole we are left with is ours alone, for each he shaped for us. And into the holes our tears will spill – and soon the holes are oceans, lakes, rivers, ponds and pools. Soon he is the brine of it all, soon he is the water that fills us, soon he is everywhere – when rain falls, when tides come in, when moon shines on seas. Soon he is one with us again, but deeper than my feet can walk merrily across.

Soon, he is with us again. But for now, I am left with the land scooped from my days.

I am left with his shape to fill.

I am left.