I’m standing, but my legs are weak; my strength has bled into the concourse carpet.
I’m smiling, but my lips feel stiff, forced into this shape against their will.
I’m waving, but my hand feels lifeless, wooden, too heavy to move.
I’m waiting, but I don’t want to see the plane ascend, to disappear into that distant sky.
I’m watching, but my vision is hot and blurry, and my lips taste of salt.
I’m present, but the fragments of my heart are shards of loss, scattered and raw.
I’m alone, and I wonder how long each hour will linger, now that he is gone.
Words © Joanna Gawn
Image courtesy of potowizard via freedigitalphotos.net