Hanging in There.

Everyone asks me how I am...
They say I look great and comment on
"how well I am grieving".
On the outside, I smile at them.
I say "I am hanging in there".
And I am.
By a thread.
What they don't know is that
they don't know anything.
Inside I am dying.
Inside I am reliving the moment
you died, over and over
and over again.
The second your heart stopped beating
a piece of mine died.
It dies over and over.
On autopilot, like the rest of me.
There is nothing strong about me.
Nothing strong about the way I am grieving.
I am just doing what any mother would do.
I am "mothering".
Sometimes I want to scream at people,
but I don't.
Sometimes I want to crumble and break apart,
but I can't.
I have this purpose, even though you are gone,
I still have a purpose.
I am still a wife and a mother,
and that is all I know.
So while my heart is breaking over and over again,
my hands are folding laundry and fixing dinner,
my eyes are carefully watching your big brother
as he explores the world around him, running,
jumping, climbing, falling...
doing every thing you will never get to do.
my mouth is kissing "owies" and scolding "no-no"s
and singing lullabies, and saying things like
"I'm hanging in there"
my feet are moving forward, my legs carrying me
to the next destination,
but my heart is broken.
Frozen in time.
In that one moment.
Hanging on by a thread as you took your last breath.