I'm standing in front of the toilet dressed in my black skirt and ocean blue silk top, black heels, and the stockings I last wore to his grandmother's funeral when I was newly pregnant with our daughter.
There's a turd the size of a burrito clogging the opening, courtesy of my son's inhuman ass, so I've got the auger fished through this shit soup and am cranking away on the morning of my husband's funeral.
I do not cry. I am devastated.
I'm glued to a bed, shower floor, hammock, hot tub, or bar stool.
I cry. I am sad.
I'm dancing on a stage, in a a cage, in a crowd, on a pole, in Denver, in Manhattan, in Chicago. Anywhere but here.
I cry. I am untethered.
It's St Patrick's Day. I fall. I grow. I move. I move on.
I cry. I am breaking. I am healing.
I find my feet, in high heels and in flip flops. I sit in the quiet. I eat life in chunks. I live its stories.
I cry. I am whole. I am happy.