Friday, April 15, 2011

Soft Butter

The knife slips through the soft butter in the ceramic dish on our kitchen counter.  It’s been just warm enough, just long enough, for the “room temperature” to rise from the upper 60’s to nearly mid-70 and the butter has softened noticeably.  We eat enough buttered toast to leave the butter out.  There is no risk of it ever going rancid even in the warmest summer days when room temperature is closer to 78.

Today our soft butter transports me in time to when last it was this soft, sometime last summer when our grief was so near the surface that the softest of breezes would set it afire like a bellows would a kiln.

Now last summer‘s anguish echoes as the waves of grief softly reverberate back through us, each time slightly less than the last, but still there, until it settles into the forever background noise of our lives.  With both hands I lean against the counter, head down. Tears fill my eyes, yet I do not cry like I would have, easily, just a few months ago.

I inhale deeply, then exhale.  I spread the soft butter on the toast then sprinkle one with cinnamon and sugar then spread another with strawberry jam and call the boys to breakfast.

1 comment:

  1. Grief's Cruel Clock

    Time is the only thing that softens it
    One day I realize that it's not quite so enormous
    Not quite so hard
    A little less

    And in that moment I feel the slightest sense of ahhhh
    I just might be able to get back to a place I recognize

    But before I can even finish that breath
    I panic
    Because somehow letting go of it
    Feels like letting go of you

    It's taken me a long time
    To feel better
    Without feeling worse

    Tick-fucking-tock

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