three days.

matt.jpgout a window.

through the branches.

a tea room.

a restaurant.

third street.

a short walk

from my former home.

our former home.

for the last three

days i've stared out

that window.

through those branches.

at all of the places

we used to visit.

the circumstances that

led me to this

place, still unbelievable

(when i allow myself to think about them).

i've lived them.

i've written about them.

and for the

last three days,

i've read them aloud

to two strangers

and a microphone.

i dreaded this.

but i'm keenly aware

that this is part of


process for moving through,

so i did it.

the difficult part:

staring back at the

words i'd written

months earlier,

words that had been

stuck in my mind

since the day

she died...

and finally.

speaking them.

to some degree

i'd let go of

them after i'd

written them down,

a cathartic process

necessary for healing.

but reading them now...

well, talk about

a fucked-up

time machine.

three days

of staring out

that window.

through those branches.

at third street.

on the third day.

the end of the words.


not because it's

all over.

but because the

process continues.

and once again,

i survived something

i never dreamed i could.

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