|Part I|

I can remember it so vividly. We tied our skates on the old bench that sat next to the lake. We took each other’s hands and, on wobbly little legs, touched that icy frozen water. My sister lost her balance and fell backwards onto her backside. A smile formed on my lips, remembering her giggle as she struggled to get back onto her feet. But my smile faded as the reality washed over me again. I rubbed my forehead as I was trying to deal with this sudden migraine, a new condition added after I lost her.  

I was yanked back to the horrid present by the sound of my tea kettle whistling. I walked to the stove and turned off the burner. After placing a teabag in my favorite mug, I poured the boiling water into my cup. With a mug full of tea, I walked to the living room and paced back and forth. I was edgy and restless; I wasn’t used to being this idle, especially in the winter. So I decided to take action and walked to the basement. With vigor, I started punching my bag. It was hurting my hands, but I didn’t want to get my bag gloves. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to feel anything. This was the healthiest way to bring some physical sensation to me. 

I punched, kicked, and clawed until I couldn’t any longer. I collapsed onto the hard, cold basement floor and laid my head on the hard flooring—staying there for over an hour. I finally got up and walked, exhausted upstairs, collapsing on the couch. For a moment, I felt tears coming over me. Finally, after two years, I let them come.  

Featured Image by Couleur from Pixabay