The Child of Grief

I was reading when the remembrance of your passing hit me. It’s been one month and two days since you died. And today I was reading and I remembered.
I felt the nausea in my throat.
Heaviness in my lungs. As if thinking about you turned them black.
I felt my mind run in circles looking for reason and I waited for the sting in my eyes. But it didn’t come.
It would have been better if it did. Then, I could release it.
Instead, the reminder that I will never talk to you again just sat there next to me.
Like an annoying person clicking their tongue distracting me from my book.
Or more like an inconsolable baby crying. Yes, that’s it. Sometimes grief is like sitting next to a child that can’t be comforted. Only that child lives in your chest.