It's cold. The ghost of our city hanging behind a veil of bleached cotton sky and I'm here alone; paralyzed by the venom of grief. Today was supposed to be special. It was her day. The day she put on every form and knew as early as she could speak. A day of cake and candles. I brought her flowers.
Where do I put them? Standing? Laying? Is there a right way to do it at all? I lean them against the gray stone. The stone... It has my name on it. The name of my father. The name I gave her.
How I miss my sweet Nichole. Her voice, her smile, her smell. I washed the sheets for the first time last month and the last breath of her scent was gone forever. I wish I could cry. I wish I could do anything. Say anything. But it's cold and I'm numb. I think I'll go home now.