by Heather Carnaghan
Crumpled tissues sit bedside, wet with twenty seven hours of sweat and tears so salty they’ve left crystalline tracks on my cheeks The glasses I’d never before removed for fear of missing a moment are strewn, one leg splayed their lenses fogged with bloody fingerprints and organic remnants of the moment I wished I had been blind to. I scan the room, wild eyed, trying to find the source of that horrible noise. It assaults my ears and pastes a look of horror on my husbands ragged face. A wail so deep and terrible that it hails from a primitive part of the psyche that has no words for this pain. The audience stands, hesitantly at first, wringing their hands and covering their mouths as they realize what I am searching for. The sorrowful ovation faces me and at last the source is clear.
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August 2018
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