They line up with their remedies

like I am a project laid out on a table.

Careful hands.

Soft voices.

Bright ideas.

As if grief were a cracked vase

and all I needed

was the right glue.

They tell me the world still has color.

They try to press it back into my eyes.

Push me toward sunsets.

Toward music.

Toward laughter loud enough

to drown out the screaming in my head.

If they can just make me laugh—

really laugh—

maybe the sound will stitch me closed.

They don’t see

how exhausting it is

to lift the corners of my mouth

when my chest feels like it’s caving in.

They don’t know

how I will replay that laugh later,

alone in the dark,

punishing myself for it.

How guilt creeps in behind it,

whispering,

How dare you?

How dare you breathe that easy

for even a second?

They don’t understand

that joy feels like betrayal now.

That light feels sharp.

That being “present”

can feel like abandoning him

in the place my mind goes

when it’s quiet.

I am being torn in two—

by the ache of missing him

and by the hands trying to pull me back

to something that no longer exists.

I know they mean well.

I know love is clumsy.

But I am not a puzzle missing a piece.

I am not broken porcelain

waiting to be repaired.

I am a mother

learning how to carry a wound

that does not close.

You don’t have to fix me.

You can’t.

Just sit with me

in the colorless hours.

Let me be fractured.

Let me grieve.

And if I laugh—

let it be mine.