• Megan Glenn



Sometimes I wake up to the sound of you saying my name. Letting the sound of the ‘g’ drag out just a bit.

Sometimes I hear it while I’m driving. When I’m praying.

This time of year always comes so quickly. And lasts so long.

Your birthday today.

Christmas next week... without you.

One month after that, the anniversary of the day I knew you’d never utter that one syllable phrase again.


... will you help me with...

... what do you think about...

... you won’t believe...

... let me tell you this joke...

... will you get (whatever) from (the kitchen, bathroom, car) for me?




Grief is so random.

Sometimes it’s quiet laughter as a memory flits across my mind.

Sometimes it’s anger at myself for taking so many moments for granted. For ignoring your call to talk to someone far less important. For telling you to get it yourself. For not consuming every moment with you.

Sometimes it’s so many loud sobs or silent tears.

I hate that it catches me off guard.

I hate that sometimes “time” doesn’t heal all wounds.

I hate that I would drive a million miles to hug you and there is no distance I could drive to have a moment with you again.

But when I’m feeling so heartbroken, like today, I place my hand over that tattoo on my right shoulder and squeeze.

As if your hand is squeezing back.

Head down, tears falling from my eyes, to the crease of my nose, to the corner of my mouth, to the tip of my chin.

Down, down, drowning.


We try to save it.

We try to organize it.

We try to imagine that once some of it has passed, we’ll be ready...

... for whatever we‘re not ready for.

But time doesn’t wait for us.

And sometimes it takes the thing that was ready today... with it.


And the memory will never be enough.


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