Author Adelaide Green

I wanted to write on the 23rd.

Four years you were gone.

But what could I say that I haven’t already?

What was new with this grief?

The feelings are not new, they’re no longer “fresh.”

They are not new. It should be easier.

Somehow the pain was worse this year.

Your grandson turned 7 the day after, the day after, 4 years.

On his cake candles “he wished he could know you.”

You were on all of our minds, the 4 years sticking to us all.

He doesn’t remember you. He knows only what he is told.

HIs memories hollow, ones that are almost implanted in his brain.

I wish he could know you too. In my hearts of hearts it’s what I wish most.

Your laugh, your wit, your knowledge, your truth.

What would you think of us all?

The way we all fell apart.

The way our family’s cracks became breaks.

I do not foresee them being fixed, there will be no kintsugi.

Now I see the cracks we already had. They existed even when you were here.

You were our gold, constantly fixing and repairing the broken pottery, bringing us back together. But there is no fixing now. Only missing.

I miss you more today than before. I miss everything about you I can remember. This year brings nothing new, just the same pain, the same hollow memories.