And I sit down at the kitchen table and realize that Mom really died. That she’ll never come back. And that I am alone. Cold hands reach out for me, threaten to pull me into a dark place where I might never escape, and I let them. It’s like I’m trapped in a block of ice that nothing can penetrate. Everything around me is just a blur of colour, a flash of movement, garbled sounds. I can’t quite decipher and don’t want to. Time passes like sludge
-Michelle Krys
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