Two Weeks

Every two weeks I've gone to the chiropractor.
Every visit they book an appointment for two weeks out.
Every two weeks I have a doctor's appointment on the anniversary of the death of someone I once loved.

I wonder sometimes if God isn't sending me subtle hints like "stop going to the doctor and people will stop dying" or if the curses of "grown-ups" telling me I was wise beyond my years all through childhood have finally caught up to me and while I appear young on the outside, I am wise enough inside to know this is the age at which everyone around me dies.

I've always thought I would die young. Maybe it's just a peer pressure thing... who knows.

Winter is the coldest death of all.
The leaves are gathering in piles at my doorstep. Their skeletons crunch under my careless boots each morning as I stumble into the busy morning streets waiting for the sun to rise and set before I've had a chance to even live the day.

This time of year feels like an endless funeral - always cold, always dark, always two weeks away from frozen memories and rain-soaked Sundays.

I have to wonder if sometimes God is subtly hinting things I don't want to know. Like maybe the colour of the sky was never meant to be anything but grey. Maybe we were only born to die. Maybe love is only sacred because it leaves so quickly and painfully without a chance to say goodbye.

Most people died and left holes in my heart; only one died and took me with him. And from September to March all I can do is walk through rain-soaked memories, muddied by busy streets and pray these boots are strong enough to hold the remains of this skeleton he left behind...