Today all I can do is stand in the middle of my kitchen and let waves of grief wash over me
But then I get to thinking, why do we say that they wash over us
This rolling deluge of everything I lose when your body ceases to walk and talk next to mine does not make me cleaner
It does not sluice away any of what I am feeling, there is no evacuation of dirt at the end of it, just
Me standing in the middle of my kitchen, drenched