This is a response to Promptuarium’s Prompt: It’s Okay.
A Mourning of Self
First, there was the accident.
Then, they found the window that wouldn’t close in her heart and the doors that became parachutes against the flow.
Then her brain became a circuit, shorted and flickering.
She bathed in the sun and stood watching her husband play in the waves that broke against her young ones but would have knocked her down.
Every hug was given, every kiss a surprise attack, every embrace long and gentle while her eyes sparkled like the ocean and her smile was sad.
Her family met her at the ocean’s edge, their laughter forming bubbles in the tiny bits of ocean she let fall as downtrodden prayers.
“You don’t have to love me.”
“But, Mom, we already do.”