Did you know that I still see you everyday? I see you walk in the same rhythms that you did before. It repeats and repeats and repeats. You walk from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the shower, and back to the bedroom. I see you try to eat. I see you try to take a shower. The same day skipping like a broken record—scratched.

It reminds me of when you were sick. Do you remember that? You could barely function at all, and it broke my heart to see you like that. I tried to take care of you. Make you food when you struggled to even get to the fridge. Wash you down in the tub when standing in the shower was too much. But you refused back then. Sometimes you would give in, when things got really bad or you got just too hungry to argue, but you would always say “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

Do you remember what I would say back? “You aren’t a burden.” It was true. You’ve never been a burden to me or to anyone. And I meant that. Anyone who would have talked to and told you would have said the same. But you were convinced it was just empty platitudes, a sense of obligation, not love. Not when you were sick.

In the mornings, I see your silhouette. The light shines in through the doorway, and your body carves a faint shadow. I see it staring into the room, still, before a struggled breath and you move on. I swear sometimes you must see me, but your behavior never changes. From the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, and then back.

Sometimes I try to reach out. I’ll call to you, say your name. I’ll beg for you to see me. I’ll scream and shout.

But you walk right through me.

It feels weird. Surreal even. The first time it happened I didn’t have the frame of mind to pay attention, but every time since I actually cherish it. Contact.

It feels like the wind being knocked out of my lungs—like getting punched in the stomach or coming to a sharp stop, held still by the seatbelt. It’s a choked cough.

But then you slip by and your routine just continues. Living the same day over and over again. 

I think you look for me. I hear you mumble my name sometimes. It’s not everyday, and sometimes it surprises me when it breaks the silence. It’s the only words I ever hear you say. Some days you call out in a whisper, barely audible over the hum of nothing that fills the rest of the day. Other days it’s an aching wail. I used to hate those days, worried you were in pain. But now I think they are the better days. The whisper comes from being numb. The wail… that’s when you are really feeling it.

I wish I could tell you I’m right here. That you aren’t alone. I do actually, almost every day. But your routine stays unchanged. Bedroom, kitchen, shower, bedroom.

I feel like your footsteps are burrowing into the floor. Carving thin but deep grooves into the floor as you walk through your unchanging day. I’m worried that the edges will grow too tall that you can’t even climb out of them. 

What’s the trick? What can I do to help? What little shift, flick of a wrist, magic word? What will help bring you out of this? What would get all of this to go away and help you move on from what you’ve lost.

I know I’m here. And I wish I could tell you that. But I’m not really here, am I? Not anymore. Not in a way that would matter to you or to anyone but me. I wish I could get you to see that! If I can’t get you to hear my voice screaming that I’m right beside you… I wish I could whisper that I’m gone.

Your friends have come and tried to tell you. They sit at your stoop, bang on your door, call your phone. They try to tell you. But you’ve shut them out. You never answer. Fewer come each time, and I’m worried who will be left.

Sometimes I stand beside them, trying to yell as loud as I can to get you to talk to them. To listen to them tell you.

“She’s gone.” That’s what they would say if you’d listen. “She will never walk through that front door again. It’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no moral component to her body not being able to handle the same sickness.”

Sometimes I remember when I was sick. I could barely function at all. And it broke my heart to see you running ragged to take care of me. You tried. You really did. You made me food, washed me in the tub.

You never made me feel like a burden.

But you need to know I’m gone.

You need to grieve.

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