DEATH Poem: Grief in nine Ways, by Aaron Mcdaniel

1. I saved every voicemail, every scrap of paper with his handwriting on it. I tell myself I can hear his voice if I need to, but I never press play.

2. I wander through grocery store aisles just to breathe, pretending he’s in the next one over, maybe buying coffee or reading the ingredients on a jar. For some reason, that always helps.

3. I scream in my car at red lights. I’ve never been so angry at the sun for setting every night like nothing happened.

4. I buried parts of myself in every place we used to go. Now, I can’t go anywhere without feeling like a stranger to myself.

5. I sit in the back pew of an empty church, not praying, but just sitting. I don’t believe in heaven, but sometimes I wish I did.

6. I avoid every single song he liked, convinced the lyrics will tear a new wound open. But at 3 a.m., I press play anyway.

7. I tell stories about him as if he’s still here. I change the endings, make them happier than they were. Sometimes, I even believe my own lies.

8. I keep his picture on my dresser but turn it around on hard days. I know he’s gone, but I can’t stand the look on his face when I’m like this.

9. I grieve him every morning when I wake up and realize it wasn’t all just a dream. And I grieve him every night when I lie down, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it will be.