The senses of losing you

Roses. That’s what it smelled like.

When I walked through that door and she told me the news.

When she told me you hadn’t made it.

When she pulled me close and we cried.

When bouquet after bouquet came,

As though that could make up for losing you.

--

Mayonnaise. That’s what it tasted like.

When the meals kept on coming,

When mom was too heartbroken to leave her room.

When I tried to pretend I could fix it; fix her.

When I refused to eat anymore stupid casserole,

As though that could make up for losing you.

--

Wailing. That’s what it sounded like.

When I went to your room.

When I saw your clothes, your toys, your crib.

When I thought no one could hear.

When I had to tell my friends you’re the reason I cried.

As though that could make up for losing you.

--

Pain. That’s what it looked like.

When even dad was crying.

When no one was laughing.

When everything looked gray and broken.

When I forgot what hope felt like,

As though that could make up for losing you.

--

Numb. That’s what it feels like.

When I try to push away the memories.

When I say I don’t like roses, or mayonnaise.

When I try to hide my wailing.

When I say I hope to see you again.

As though that can make up for losing you.