The Shadow of A Memory on The Scorched Earth

The calendar holds memories that commemorated joy. Though the earth rotates more slowly now those days still return, year-by-year, only now to cast a shadow across the scorched earth upon which you labor. Sweat across your brow, arms shaking with fatigue, fingers aching to grasp the broken pieces you lift, heavy back and weary legs. Wrapping paper, candles, family, and cake: replaced by dry tongue and pitted stomach, a rising nausea that captures your throat. The laughter and smiles, the palpable excitement, now but apparitions haunting about your day. Nothing gets replaced that God has taken away. No joy repeated that man took for granted. Happy birthdays lose their happy. Merry Christmas never merry. Every memory on a calendar a potential nidus for infection. With only the remnants of pride we chant, “your best days were those loved by me”. But with the whole of your heart, “I wish I was there”.