My mourning is not breaking apart on the bathroom floor at 3 in the morning. It is not the inconsolable heaviness in my body that refuses to get up, even though the world is still moving on with them. My mourning will never be the same as yours and yet, mine is deemed wrong. You say I’m cold and that something has to be wrong with me because people whose loved one just died don’t act this way. But Your mourning has you broken into tiny pieces. My mourning was putting those pieces back together so I could have a mother. I was mourning not 1 but 2 parents that year. I got myself to school, got top grades and made sure you didn’t kill yourself in the middle of the night to join your husband. You’ve misunderstood my sorrow for as long I can remember. My sorrow has always come from my soul, leaving tiny cracks in its wake, growing deeper and deeper with every poison word, every whimper from your mouth. My mourning never got to be on the outside to showcase for you that I am “sad”. My mourning was private, tears dripping down my face as I listened to the songs I shared with him. Silent screams echoed through the night as I held myself close, so I had something other than the sound of my heart breaking to focus on. You’ve misunderstood me…but when has that been any different than before?
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