The Empty Pocket

I tried to feel the pain people said comes with the death of someone you love. I waited. Any moment now it would strike. It must.

I was prepared.

Come on, get me now, I silently willed. Open my heart and rip it to shreds, tear through my happy reminiscences and spike them with spears then fling them at me for there will never be more memories again. Make me suffer, for heaven’s sake. Make me cry.

I glance at the people around me. Oh, how pleased they must be with themselves. Tears rolling down their faces. Sobbing until their shoulders shook. Everyone can see how much they’ll miss the person they are burying. They’ve put on the appropriate show with such authenticity, I feel like crying for them.

But I here I stand, sinking the love of my life into the ground and I’m failing at the part of which I was meant to be the star.

The woman who stands next to me, my mother I think, asks me for a tissue or a handkerchief to soak up her bountiful tears.

I pat my pockets and come up empty.

Perhaps I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was for this role.