I sat in silent contemplation, watching mindlessly as the icy flakes drifted silently to the ground. I glanced over and saw my skates sitting on the floor, untouched for the past three years. I haven’t worn them since…

I turned my attention back to my grief journal, the blank pages staring back at me. I couldn’t write anything because I’m numb. How do I write about what I feel when I’m empty inside? I have been since that day three years ago. It was winter again, a season that used to be my favorite.  Now, I only sit inside, staring at the snow falling, wondering if this hole inside me will ever be filled.  

I need tea, I thought. I walked to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and put it on the stove. I looked out the kitchen window and watched the frozen lake, where it all started and ended.  

Maybe I’ll try writing again while waiting for my tea to boil.  

I sat at my desk once again and decided I’d just write about how empty I felt. I couldn’t even write a poem. I wrote about wanting to die, almost taking my life two years ago. It all came out without emotion. I felt nothing.  

Satisfied that I’d written something, I closed my journal. I looked out at the wintery spectacle and saw the neighbor kids having a snowball fight. How I longed for the simpler days of my youth—before it all went away. They looked so happy, not a care in the world. I envied them, their innocence.  

My mind wandered to her, my sister—my best friend in the world. She was gone, and with her, she took everything. My mind continued to drift to the very first day on that frozen lake. We were so little; we were skating before we could really walk. Years later, that same frozen lake took her.  

Featured image by Karl Egger on Pixabay