I wake and you are still gone.
The cats tap-tap-tapping on my arms and face declare the day has begun despite the dark and I need to climb out of bed.
What difference does it make?
I trudge downstairs, put the coffee on, feed the cats and settle into my chair to read and write.
Routine carries me through the day. There are things that need to be done.
The sun still rises-must be soon now because I hear the rooster’s escalating declaration that he, at least, can see the light.
One cat settles into my lap adding weight and warmth to the morning. I remember when I held you and your brothers and sister. I never tired of that sweet bundle bearing down on my heart.
I would do anything to feel it again.
But that can’t be. And I won’t hold your children either.
All of you was taken away.
Every last molecule, every last gene.
Nothing left but flat photos and memories that are increasingly difficult to piece together in rich detail.
The vital essence that sent shock waves through a room, the loud laugh, the snarky comments, the deep, deep voice that made you sound so serious-all gone.
Heaven is a real place and I know you are there.
But I want you here.
I can’t help it.
All the theological arguments don’t fill the hole in my heart where you are supposed to be.
Shake it off.
Here’s the sun.
Get to it.