To Pauline

Pieces of her are breaking. I see you everywhere, even when you are not there.

You were my friend. I can feel your pain even if you are not longer here.

I miss your voice. I miss your stories. I miss your grip. I miss you.

I listen to the last voicemail you left me. Why didn’t I pick up? I love you, too.

I can feel you with me. You have left me pieces of you. And they keep them surprising me.

Bit by bit, I keep finding you, discovering you in this plain, in this world. I am not bothered. Finding you hurts, but being without you hurts more.

Hearing your voice feels like home. A home I am far from knowing.

The pictures, the frames, the stories. Oh Pauline, my friend, I miss you.

I see you in the blurred faces at the store. I hear you in the muffled mic at the butcher shop. You used to love cheese pufs, I like them now too.

How would things be if you were still with us? Would I resent you? Would I love you?

I can’t change the past, or the future that never came.

Sometimes to live is to feel pain.