I saw my baby die, in the wilderness, the wind harsh against my skin. She ran to see me, but I couldn’t touch her. She disappeared beneath my fingers, simply mist and fog in my heart and I lost her. I lost her. I lost her.
The forest saw me, but they did nothing. I silenced their condolences and screamed. Could you not help? Could you not help? You stupid pieces of wood and bark and ancient magic, could you not be here?
Her dark lips quiver as she speaks, smooth and eloquent and covered in tears. Black, braided hair tossed over a shoulder and a university degree she drops to the ground, its dirt its only memento.
This piece of paper, reader. This piece of paper did nothing. I am lost and homeless, my heart adrift, and only these words I speak seem real. How did I come here?
Her anger hits me like waves of fire, hot and consistent, lapping and hunting.
How could I be here? She is gone, my baby, she is gone. Naught but mist on an ocean breeze, only my breath to remember her. She’s fucking. Gone.
I cannot help you. I am so sorry.
Angry. Stares at me. Her eyes.
I am so sorry. I take her hands and she flings me away. She cries. I am so sorry.
I cry with her.
It seems enough.
she is gone
It is never enough.