But, I watched him fight to live. For a week, by his side. Praying, pleading. Then, God took him home. His time. And I’m left in an empty house with more sorrow than I can handle. Still.
“You must grieve through it. Feel the wound,” my grandmother told me.
I stared in the mirror at my unrecognizable face. Then stuck my tongue out, giggling, cracking a smile. A face painting class is no doubt what I needed today.