That the mighty hands by which the universe was sculpted

Wraps me so delicately in the cocoon of his embrace

What a miracle it is, that a burden could be light and a yoke easy

How is it that such power and might pauses and waits—patiently—as I submit the weight of self-reliance

As I relinquish the “what ifs” and the “what nexts”

As I release every anxiety

What freedom there is in utter dependence!

What peace there is too

A peace so great, I laugh in the face of the heavy clouds

Comfort seeks me even through the thunder and the rain; a storm is still too small

“Rest,” He said, “Rest. There is always room for rest.”

-Mesuur

I don’t even miss you one bit, I swear.

No, for real.

Because on nights when my heart feels heavy, I quite like the way my pillow tries to send me to heaven by suffocation.

I mean, who would pick a man’s chest over crying into a pillow?

Dear love I never had

I don’t miss the way my heart has never unfurled to its full potential. I don’t miss the feeling, the one where you need them in a way that transcends physicality, in that way that merges heart and spirit until two become heaven’s latest issue on what love should look like.

Why would I miss something so wholesome?

Dear love I never had

I’ve found chemistry, but I’ve never found you. It’s irritating. It’s… it’s so irritating.😒

Yours,

The love you’ve definitely never had.

There was once a time when being idiosyncratic was cool. Being a little strange, a little peculiar, a little unlike everyone else was something to admire.

Now we have trends, and we, like eager-to-please children, rush to get in line as quickly as possible, like a herd of sheep being led into a pen.

These trends now inform our ideas of what is and what is not.

They shape our standards of beauty, of happiness, of love—of all the simple things that once funded our individuality.

At some point—usually the moment you cross a certain age—the world shoves a paintbrush into your hand and asks you to paint your life to look like the person who is “Cool.”

And so we try.

But now, if you dare to look beyond faces, it has become difficult to tell one person from another.

I’m going to hold your hand as I say this:

You, who was so fearfully and wonderfully made, may have conformed to standards that you had no business with.

For the sake of all that is rare and beautiful, put an end to it now.

It’s urgent. I promise.

The world is slowly becoming extinct of the wonder that you add to it, and it should not be so. As long as you are still here, you should be here—not faded, not diluted, definitely not extinct.

Let us bring back personalities.

Who are you underneath your skin?

Are you not magic? Something peculiar?

Trends will change. Stop changing with them.

Evolve as yourself. Let everything you choose be you.

The world is already losing too much wonder.

Do not let it lose yours too.

A/N: Btw, can this pass as a spoken word piece? Yep or meh?

I have lived before

not this version of myself as you know it

the one who’s always tired, always sad, always guarded, who’s real feelings are always veiled

But the other one, the softer more effervescent little icon

the one who never shied away from an adventure, who knew how to laugh with no restraint

she could cry but she lived so well, what a happy little thing in a world that strips the very thing.

I used my own hands, I ended her existence

locked up her remains in the deepest parts of me,

I formed this new me in a silent surrender, I fell on my knees as the world had its way with me.

But how can you live a second life when the first one still breathes?

Hidden in the depths of me, the light still beams

It turns out icons are not so easily extinguished.

Who am I now, the cause or the effect?

the origin or the consequence?

How unfair it will be to ditch the girl I am for the girl I was

but still, how unfair it will be to let that wonder fade away forever

Maybe I can be both, a coalescence of defiance

Not as a victim of the world’s cruelty but as a survivor, a diamond forged under pressure.

A/N: Well hello there! I didn’t edit this poem, so please pardon any errors. xo

11 months, 2 weeks, 3 days after Joshua’s passing.

<<Ayo's notebook entry>>

I went back to God. I realize now that it was foolish of me to have ever left His side, but it felt like the wisest thing when my insides burned with a pain that could have ended me.

Here, I see another one of His mercies. What could have annihilated me—what still can—I am surviving.

The other day met me wondering… 

Do things just happen or does every occurrence have a cause? I know, the law of cause and effect already answers that question. But then that leaves us with a heap of blame and a few options for the recipients of this blame:

God, satan, someone else, or yourself.

I can categorically say that it is easier to blame the first. It is almost instinctive. There is something about sovereignty that, in our human minds, translates into cause or at the very least, complacency.

So, we throw all blame at God’s feet. We point accusing fingers saying, You caused this, and if You didn’t, You let it happen.

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We also, unfortunately, have those who will fall into the extreme of invalidating God’s existence. I do not belong in this category, so I will not go down this rabbit hole now that I have found that writing, which started as a way to process my grief, has become an escape. 

I, however, pointed very accusing fingers at God. What we forget—and I conveniently did—is that for everything we suffer in the world as we know it now, God in His providence has already provided a definite solution.

Pain and suffering? There is an end in sight, when He returns. Death now translates into eternal life. That is why Apostle Paul’s words resonate “O death, where is thy sting?”

But we are so accustomed to the here and the now that every promise seems inconsequential. And so, we blame God.

But if only good comes from God—and it is—it means we need to desperately latch onto the hope of a definite end to the insanity that is this present world.

This is not a lesson in theology. I still occasionally catch myself with a truck-full of blame my eager heart wants to haul at God. This is me actively recalling what I believe until I truly, fully believe it.

Time does not heal all wounds. Or maybe it does and I haven't unlocked that level yet. I don’t know if more time is what I need or if it’ll still hurt in the exact same way five years from now.

No. Time, I think, merely washes away the novelty of pain until it becomes something so thoroughly lived in, so worn, that it feels like an occupant and not an intruder.

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Each day presents me with a brand-new struggle. I wake with a start on some days, on those days, I would instinctively reach across the bed just to find it empty. I can't describe the hollow feeling that follows.

On other days, I sluggishly want to remain in bed forever. Because waking up means performing the daily ritual of remembrance.

And then other days, I feel like myself again for a brief moment as I wake. The feeling never lasts, and I am grateful that it doesn't. Going back to who I was and how I lived before Joshua is just dishonorable. 

On every day, that wrongness still remains. It still gives the world an unfamiliar stench, paints it in foreign colors.

Progress remains a myth for me. Or maybe it is progress even if I relapse into a ball of tangible sorrow every now and then.

I cannot say, it has been only eleven months.

I made a promise to live. Joshua, before he died, made me promise to live, truly live. And while I have not found the willpower to truly live, I am committed to living.

This rhythmic breathing in and out, I will keep doing it for as long as I have. 

I promised to live, so I will. Me, God, and this grief.


THE END.

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight.

Let’s Talk: Welcome to the end of Ayo: A Journey Through Grief. It has been a journey. I wanted to give us 10 chapters (I apologize if the ending seems hasty) but I will be away for a couple of weeks, and it is best to close this loop.

How has this series been for you? Anything you learned, liked, or disliked? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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See you again soon. 🤎

“Talk to you tomorrow”, he says

Just before he goes on to ignore her texts all week and a day

And she’s trying not to come off as too desperate

“Hey, I’m just making sure you’re okay” 



I can’t tell you if he’s playing a game or if he has demons he’s fighting

But I know that she cries her eyes out in hiding

She’s glued to her phone, 

Desperately checking every notification that pops in



While he’s off doing God knows what, she’s wondering if there’s something wrong with who she is

And she’s trying to act like it doesn’t tear her whole existence into pieces

Because see, she actually really liked this one

And he acted so sweetly, as though he may like who she is



After a week and a day, he sends her a “U up?” late at night

Of course she’s up, no sleep in sight, thoughts of him put up a good fight 

Her heart does a happy sigh as his texts sits on her screen

But beneath the sweet relief is a fear begging to come clean

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She quiets her doubts and sends a reply

Because no one ever taught her the kind of love to deny

“I just needed time to clear up the mess in my head” she smiles at his regret

Her heart melts at his words as experience prepares a lesson she’ll never forget



Some people don’t break your heart loudly, this girl finally knows

Because, you guessed right again, again this time he ghosts

She stitches together excuses and worn-out alibis

But the hardest choice is uncertainty or goodbyes 



Her heart breaks and aches and cries out his name

She keeps her knuckles clenched, her peace she hopes to reclaim

But it hurts the most when he texts her again

A simple “I miss you” that seems to multiply her pain to the power of ten



She blocks his number and throws away her phone

And she’s finally starting to believe that she deserves so much more

Who did she love more between the person he was and the person she made him out to be?

It doesn’t matter anymore; this time she decides to love herself for real

A/N: Poetry Monday!

If you read this far, hi! I really hope you’re having the best day. Please, if you want to, drop your thoughts in the comments. 🥺

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See you next Monday. 🤎

<<Ayo’s notebook entry>>

It took me four months to get over myself or at least get over myself enough to write Joshua a real eulogy. I’d written one before, days after he’d passed, but I do not even remember the details trapped in that slim page.

I’d gone through all the motions, reading out words I wasn’t even hearing to the small crowd dressed in black and perched on seats in the chapel. 

Grief, as I’m experiencing it, is devastatingly selfish. Understandably so. The agony cannot be explained. The instinctive response is to turn your attentions inwards and nurse your injuries in the slow heart wrenching manner that often succeeds that kind of trauma. 

I’ve idolized this pain, I dare say, more than I have loved Joshua since he died. I find myself consumed with my feelings of pain and this deep sense of overarching loneliness that nothing else remotely matters.

I plan to change that. How could I, even for a brief moment, think that I got the raw end of the bargain? How could I forget the pain he lived through for over a year? 

He lived each second while his body slowly collapsed on him. He was so young. Too young. And it is so unfair. To suffer that much, so young, when there’s so much life just outside your window. 

I have made room for this grief that still kills me with every inhale. I have lived every day for the past four months against all odds. Now, I will make room in my shattered heart for him too. 

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Joshua, my love, this is your real eulogy:

Joshua Wes, who would always prefer to be called by the combination of his first name and middle name (never his last name), never compromised on three things: 

Sleeping on the left side of the bed, his devotion to God, and his love for me.

You cannot talk about Joshua without referencing his impressive catalog of unwavering convictions, some that formed the foundations of our little family and the fleeting bubble that was our love story.  

Joshua Wes was the absolute love of my life and my very best friend. I’ve never known a kinder person. He was kind, not only to me, but to everyone else who received the indescribable privilege of meeting him even for a brief moment.

The world needed more Joshua Wes, but instead, the world failed to hold onto the one. It’s all our loss.

Our love story was as epic as it was understated. Joshua knew how to woo me in the grandest of ways, but he also knew how to stay and love me in the everyday moments. 

We had a love that could be so all-consuming yet be right at home in our shared silences and inside jokes. A masterpiece. Destiny was kind to both of us. 

If there was ever a way to turn back time, to erase every hurt and pain, to go back to the unscathed girl I was with a complete and unbroken heart, Joshua, I wouldn’t take it. I would not even contemplate it for a second.

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Meeting Joshua Wes, loving him, being loved by him—these will forever remain my greatest accomplishments. 

I wish we had more time. What a life we would have had! God, it would have been magic without such an abrupt ending.

Joshua packed me an eternity of love within our numbered days, I can only imagine how full my heart would have been if we’d had more time. I mourn the impossibility of growing old together. 

But I am so grateful. Joshua, I am so thankful. I’ve lived a life that’s been so thoroughly loved, sometimes I wonder if I ever deserved it. We had beauty in the short amount of time we were allotted, and I will forever remain indebted.  

Until we meet again, hold on to these words for me:

As long as I am still in this world, you will exist. In the way I see the world, you will exist. I will leave pieces of you in every painting, in every photograph, in every burgundy-colored article I see.

In the kindness I show, you will be immortalized. I will pass this kindness, the very one you taught me, to every person I will ever meet until you are etched into the sands of time.

In my faith, you will exist. I will carry with me your unwavering convictions, I will hold everything you held dear reverently until my convictions find their feet again. But even then, you will exist, because yours raised mine.

I will love you forever. I will always be in awe of you. I still like you so much. I will perpetually be thankful for you. Rest easy, my love. 

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven.

Is this the end? No! 🥺 I think we’ll get one more chapter before we bid Ayo farewell.

Let’s Talk: How did you like this chapter?

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See you next Thursday. 🤎

Nothing scared me more than love, my love.

I was terrified of all the stories I heard. The loss, the heartbreak, the overwhelming pain.

How giving up one’s heart led to a blanket of guilt and a choking grip of heart-wrenching tears.

And then I met you…

Meeting you threw me into a frenzy.

Why did I suddenly look forward to your random check-ins during the day?

Where did all the girly giggles and face-splitting grins come from?

How did you sneak into my heart before I got the chance to throw up my walls and add more barricades to my gates?

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I didn’t want to feel that way. I didn’t want the pain that inevitably followed such bubbly feelings.

I was so afraid of this thing called love,

oh so worried of having to ever breathe without you by my side if I let you get closer.

I cut you off before you could cut me. I sent you off before I gave my heart a send-forth.

But you, my love, you stayed.

And brought me flowers everyday. Those sweet little notes, poetry like balm to fill up my cracks.

You stayed because I needed a friend. I needed loving even when I was unwilling to let my heart go.

You saw through my facade of fierceness, how I pretended to be an island when my soul craved community.

And bit by little bit, you became my person. Mine.

It was platonic until it just couldn’t be.

Because those hugs, they healed me. I never wanted to let go.

Your smile started to look like morning, radiant, hopeful.

You grounded me. Gave my emotions validation. Loved me and taught me to love myself.

These forehead kisses felt like home.

But it’s not about the kisses, though, it’s about You. You are HOME.

And I promise, nowhere has ever felt as safe as your arms.

I love it at home.

A/N: Poetry Mondays… I didn’t forget! Up Love!🥳😘

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See you next Monday

There is a passion inside me that has been subdued for too long.

A tempest, seeking to obliterate strongholds and tear down every voice, every thought that has ever dared to utter You can never make it.

Every little drop of my blood screams in advocacy for a purpose I have delayed to pursue.

It is only right that this awakening happens. A purpose awakening.

I have finally read the Manufacturer’s instructions, this product is capable of so much more.

Right now, I imagine the angels clapping with sighs of relief floating in heaven:

We thought she’d never figure it out.

Well, I have. And I want it.

Every. Last. Drop.

Why am I begging my way through life when I have been given the authority to dominate, to triumph, to sit as royalty, and to fight with assured victory?!

I am not asking for permission, I have seized it. It was always mine, anyway.

Henceforth, I am commandeering every gift that has been deposited inside me.

This battle will end with my hand in the air, announced as champion.

God forbid that my eulogy reads “She could have been…”

No.

I refuse.

I will do the work of He who sent me. With all my heart, with all my strength, with all I write, with all I speak. With everything I have been blessed to be.

Till the kingdoms of this world become the kingdom of our God and of His Christ. 🫡

I wrote this for myself, but I hope it is for you too.

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Your homegirl,

Mesuur.

31 days since Joshua’s passing…

The rich grass tickled Ayo’s bare legs as she pulled one and then the other underneath her until she sat cross-legged, eyes fixed squarely on the tombstone a foot from her.

It was almost picture perfect… clear blue sky, flowers, grasses far too green, the occasional butterfly, and chirpy birds. Except her watery gaze remained fixed on a tile with inscriptions that were a gross underestimation of everything Joshua was… is.

Beloved husband, son, and friend.

She flicked open the notebook she carried with her.

*****

<<Ayo’s notebook entry>>

One month. 744 hours. An eternity. 

When I went to bed yesterday, I wished with all my might that by some miracle, I would not have to commemorate this day. Some days I still find myself hoping all this life I’m living is one very detailed simulation. 

But here I am, cleaning the dust off a shiny stone, searching for a proximity that eludes me, when I’d rather be wrapped tightly in my husband’s arms.

Grief is like walking the edge of a knife, slowly, as the knife slices into your skin with every step you take. 

I never really thought about it before I had to live it, how it isn’t just an invoice that you can clear with a swipe of a card, but a long torturous journey.

It is long because every hour, every second, has to be lived. Fully. Humanly. It is torturous because with each inhale there is remembrance. 

Sometimes a sharp slice of pain, other times it is a quiet wrongness, the kind that hangs in the air from the moment your person takes their last breath.

How do I explain that I live a hundred years in a second? I spend a significant amount of time begging time to find someone else to torture.

Funny how just a few months ago, I never had enough time to do all the things I wanted to do, now all I have is time. 

Did I not pray enough? 

It is a genuine concern. I have spent a great deal of my many servings of time examining myself. Did I spend so much time being the perfect companion when I should have been praying for him? 

I know Joshua appreciated the company, always, but would he not appreciate it more if he were here with me?

Would he not? I am being selfish; I am sure he is perfectly content in paradise.

What if I had prayed more? The days I was tired and all I could offer was a silent plea, what if I ignored my fatigue and contended for what I wanted? Would things have played out differently?

I think I am starting to hate myself more than I hate everything else. I could have done things better, with more urgency. 

There were even times, tiny windows I immediately shut, when I doubted. What if I had believed fully?

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I know that I can never receive certainty for these questions I ask, but does that ever stop a desperate heart? Can that stop a heart so eager for a punching bag upon which all its pent-up rage will be unleashed? 

I might deserve to be the punching bag. God, could I have really done better? 

Yesterday, I went through the ‘AJ Folder’ as we fondly called it—a digital archive of every single picture or video we’ve ever taken, together or individually.

The pictures were a moment in time, forever frozen still. I can never go back to see his eyes glitter, to see his full expression before the image—the split second of reality—was captured. 

The videos were incomplete too. If I had recorded every waking moment with him, it would still feel far too inferior a replacement. 

God, my throat and ears ache from all the emotion welling inside me. I don’t need memories, I need him. I need him so much, I don’t know what I am outside this profound feeling of loss.

Joshua is dead. Gone from this vast thing we call the universe. Dead. When will this knowledge not break me?

It’s been one month. 744 hours. A lifetime. 

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six.

I hope you enjoyed reading.

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See you next Thursday. 🤎

a chink in someone’s armor,

a lapse of the mind,

a crack where good reason slips through.

Irrational

Unreasonable

Unrealistic

Delusional

These are words hissed like curses to the mind that dares to dream beyond the visible.

But creation is not formed from thin air,

it first exists within the creator.

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Before anything becomes real,

it first exists in the mind,

safely within the borders of a strange country called Belief.

That is why I call it a Fine Art.

The mind becomes a studio,

a thought rises—a raw material,

the mind nurtures it, flips it, examines it

That small, stubborn defiance,

becomes four little words.

I can do this.

As expected, the world does not welcome newness with open arms.

People squint at it.

They call it:

Foolish

Naive

Delusional

But what else would you call a person building an airplane where no car exists yet?

Or a voice that insists water could fall from the sky, even flood the whole earth, when all the world has known is sunshine?

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Delusion is the only thread between hesitation and motion.

Yes, this might fail

Yes, it will be difficult

Yes, you could lose

But try anyway, delusion whispers softly.

Because what happens after may change the world,

what happens after may change reality.

Delusion is a stubborn seed of possibility,

what makes you fall, rise, fall again yet still never accept the ground as all there is for you.

Even faith looks a little like this.

To believe in what you cannot see,

to trust in a promise that has not yet taken shape,

to many, that too looks like delusion.

But perhaps belief—delusion—has always been that bridge between the non-existent and the becoming.

There is a kind of delusion that is a cancer,

of course.

The kind that refuses truth,

refuses growth,

refuses correction.

But there is another kind,

the fine art,

it whispers to the trembling heart,

Something more is possible.

That is where all true art is birthed, displaying the absolute wonder of the human mind.

And history, if you listen closely,

is filled with the footsteps of people

who believed things long before the world could see them.

Ask Noah. Ask Abraham. Ask Joseph. History has blessed us with evidence,

a quiet permission.

Something more is always possible.

At first they looked foolish.

Later they looked inevitable.

So maybe delusion is not always a defect.

Maybe sometimes it is a skill to hone, a creative power.

Maybe it is a Fine Art.

A/N: Poetry Monday just got a little serious 🧐 🤣

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See you next Monday. 🤎

Your homegirl,

Mesuur.

I got up anyway, just incase Monday is the day that things work out.

On Tuesday, I snoozed my alarm three times. I am not proud of it, but Monday took too much from me, more than I had to give.

It wasn’t that the work sucked out my energy like drinking matcha with a straw, it was that despite all the effort I valiantly put into it, things did not work out, like trying to force boba pearls through a tiny straw.

But because time waits for no man and the world moves on from a person far too quickly, I got up after my alarm went off the fourth time.

I spoke life into my mind and rubbed hope back into the cracks that had formed, just incase Tuesday is the day that things work out.

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On Wednesday, dawn met me bleary eyed and sleep deprived after a night of tossing and turning as rest slid through my slippery grasp.

I fought a hard battle, one of the mind. A battle to quiet those thoughts that materialize at the exact point they shouldn’t.

“You’re simply not good enough”

“You do not have what it takes”

“Get off your high horse, you over-ambitious rider, did you think it would work out?”

I cannot tell if I won that battle, all I can say is that I got up, still. I covered my eye bags with makeup and packed a bag…to work. Hope was a flickering flame struggling to stay burning in a whirlwind.

Still there, but barely, just incase…just incase.

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On Thursday, I took a day off. Not to be productive, but to wander. Why did I feel miles off from my equilibrium? How did I miss the deadlines I had set for myself?

What is it about greatness that I am unable to achieve? Why am I at a standstill when life keeps moving so fast?

You’d expect that a day off work would be rejuvenating. It wasn’t. That night, I crawled into bed spent. I cried into my pillow. I wished, briefly, to be free of this world.

On Friday, my eyes opened to tiny shards of light fighting for a chance to shine in through the blinds. My secret brief wish from the night before was met with a firm NO. I hadn’t meant it, anyway. Because deep down, I knew things would work out…in His time.

I remembered His words “…all things work together for good for they that love Him…”

Him, I knew, a promise He was incapable of breaking. A fresh resurrection occurred, the flame reignited within me. It may not be today, I knew, but someday was a promise He would keep.

It may not be the way I want it, but His ways are better than mine, anyway.

It may not be one dramatic moment, but a series of small, mundane events woven into a masterpiece. In fact, it may already be in play now.

And so, I got up, because things were working out and I needed to be ready for when they manifested themselves.

A/N: Hold on… just in case.🤎

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Your homegirl,

Mesuur.

21 days after Joshua’s passing…

<<Ayo’s notebook entry>>

Today, I woke up with a start, much like every other day since Joshua left this world. I woke up drenched in my own sweat, panting while I cowered beneath the unspeakable weight of the memories I have of him. 

Every laugh, every tear, every dance, every slow day, the slight wrinkle between his brows whenever he was concentrating, the way he held his coffee mug like it owed him money. 

All these little details I vowed to keep close and hold tight have now become a trap in the form of a crumbling room. A heavy stone pins me down and steals my air as bricks collapse upon me little by little.

I heard that it is a dream come true to still feel the presence of someone whom you love, who died, as though they were still there with you. You feel less alone, I heard. It’s different for me. This dream has become a nightmare I hope to wake up from. 

I still hear his voice. Faintly. Like a soft whisper behind me, and I hate the heartache that transforms into tentacles squeezing my heart when I turn and I realize it’s all in my head.

I hate the moment of vivid recollection after I rush in the direction of the sound of a door slamming shut just to realize it was the wind and not him. It won’t ever be him. 

I am a cup so full of hatred for many things. 

Jesus. Help me. All I can do is beg for mercy. 

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I remind myself that J is gone. Every time. Will remembering him ever get easier? Should it? 

Grieving makes you lazy, I’ve discovered. I, who was so full of energy with a list full of activities to fill my days, now consider going to the bathroom a terrible chore. 

I don’t want to wash my hair, nor do I want to suffer the trouble of chewing food. I am merely a performative shadow of myself, carrying out the mundane tasks which are required of me. What I really want is to transform into a tree and sit around all day without it being an anomaly. 

I no longer want a full life; I just want to lay on my couch and… and do what? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I especially don’t know how to exist with this truck-full of grief. 

I am not performing grief correctly, or so I think. I am supposed to be smiling and nodding and saying thank you to callers. Instead, I hide from visitors and let my parents handle them. I do not know where my phone is. I have totally and completely isolated myself from the world. 

I don’t want to sit with people who avoid my eyes because they don’t know what to do with the pain in them. I don’t want someone to awkwardly stutter a condolence message when it’s painfully obvious how uncomfortable it is for them. I don’t want to be tip-toed around, treated like something fragile. I don’t want words of hope that haven’t been lived.

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I am not angry, nor am I disappointed that people don't know how to act around me. This is most probably how I offered comfort to a grieving person too. I'd just rather be alone. Call it cowardice or self-preservation, I’d rather be alone.

I wonder if Joshua thinks of me, too. If he does, I hope it is not nearly as much as I do him. Heaven… I hope it is everything he hoped for. I hope he no longer knows the meaning of pain. 

I wonder what he would say if he saw me now.
Joshua, the kindness that he was, he’d probably tell me well-done. 

“Well-done for living till 21 days. Well-done for the three hours of sleep you’re able to manage. You’re doing so well.”

No, I am not. But I would not tell him that.

He’d tell me that what I feel is normal and necessary, he’d tell me to make room for it and sit with it until I am able to stand. He’d thoroughly believe that one day, this too shall pass, and I’d live again.

Oh, Joshua, this is nothing like anything you’ve ever felt, how can I live again?  

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five.

Let’s Talk: Hey, what changed the most about you after a difficult loss? Also, if you read the previous Chapter (Chapter Five), you’ll know that Ayo is struggling with her faith. Have you ever struggled with your faith during a difficult season and how did you navigate that?

Sending you love.

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What did you think of this chapter? Lemme know! See you next week Thursday. 🤎

My mind is like a dreary storm
and a beautiful rainbow in the same sky.

I know that You know all, see all, can do all,
yet I overanalyze faux impossibilities.
My thoughts push against each other,
each one vying for attention.

Like two mighty forces pulling me in opposing directions,
I see that, though I don’t want to, I am torn.

Help, Lord.

Rid me of my knowledge-weary mind,
that I may not know so much of how the world works
that I lose my ability to accommodate the Divine.

Help me in the times when I believe, but still doubt—
those times when I trust, but fail to completely lean in,
those times when I have faith in Your power
but am too human not to calculate the odds.

I believe, but Lord, help my unbelief.

A/N: This achingly familiar contrast exists in Mark 9:24. Check your Bible. 😅🤏 I post poems every Monday. Please, reshare.

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See you next Monday. 🤎

The notebook her father had left beside her while she pretended to be asleep the night before already lay open on the blanket covering her legs. She placed pen to paper and let her thoughts spill.

The clouds hang heavy with moisture, the sky’s brimming cup waiting to spill. I love this weather. Or I used to love this weather. I don’t know anymore. What is it about grief that causes everything to lose flavor?

No one ever told me that embarking on the thrilling journey of love will inevitably end in grief, however long or short the love stays. It doesn’t matter if it lasts for a day or sixty years, it will end, oftentimes in grief. It makes me wonder if I would have let myself fall headfirst into that euphoric feeling if I had contemplated all the facts.

No, it actually does not make me wonder if, but how better prepared I would have probably been, because there is no version of me that would ever reject the happiness, the peace, the beauty that love brought into my life.

Joshua was perfect. He will forever be.

He was kind and intelligent and everything I needed even on days I forgot. The almost three years we had been married were blissful—even when illness came and knocked the wind out of us. The cold grip of death wiped away something truly remarkable from existence—the here and now—as we know it and left in its stead a void that seems to swallow me whole.

I miss him in a way that I do not know how to acknowledge. In a way that chokes me until all I can do is gasp for a name that will never answer back anymore. Death has dissected something that was whole and holy and has left me with a half I do not know how to be, a role I do not know how to perform.

I don’t know who I am without Joshua. That is literally what marriage does, brings two to become one. Once, I was complete, now I am a half.

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Living… surviving is ugly. It is dreadful to be the one left behind. The one left to wonder if the agony will ever lessen, the one who welcomes the pain like a price for survival. Will life ever be worth living again?

Another thing no one told me was that love puts a filter over your eyes. It influences how you see the world and how you react to it, and when that love gets extinguished like a lit candle in the rain, the filter immediately blinks out, replaced instead with a bleakness that is foreign and wrong and you just want to go back to how things were, but it is impossible. Those rights only exist in the hands of God.

The vapidity of grief, the loss of the illusion of perfection, the new reality you will be forced to embrace as a “functional” human. What a farce!

Can you tell that I am angry? I am. Absolutely furious at everything and anything that brushes any of my five senses.

I’m angry at myself because I have proven to be pathetically weak, significantly weaker than I thought I was, because I have succumbed to the laziness of grief. I have more to say about this, but later.

I’m angry that I cannot bring myself to paint the landscape I always wanted to paint. I’m angry at the landscape, too, for still being beautiful but in an ugly way. I’m angry that this weather now happens to be my worst, when it used to be my favorite—our favorite.

I am angry at God too. So enraged at an Omnipotence that claims to delight in granting our heart desires when in reality, that is not true. He said ‘Ask and you will receive’ but again, I call hogwash.

“Only according to His will” people will say, and I agree. But what kind of a God’s will isn’t good health? Or better yet, what kind of God heals some and leaves some? What kind of will is that?

I used to believe when He said He was good. I used to see God’s goodness in everything. Now, as I said earlier, it seems the scales have fallen from my eyes and I am left with a sudden dimness tinging my faith, a bitter aftertaste.

The wind quieted and tiny droplets of rain began to fall, increasing gradually in volume and tempo. Ayo wrapped her blanket tighter around herself and angled her notebook in a way that made it hard for stray rain drops to touch it. She wiped away furious tears as she continued writing.

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Yesterday, on one of my regular walks to Joshua’s grave, I ran into someone I knew from church. There was no way to avoid her, so I agonizingly endured two minutes of awkward conversation where just before we parted ways, she placed a hand that I am sure was intended to be comforting on my shoulder as she said “God has a plan”.

Those four words settled like undigested food in my belly as I labored to close the short distance home. I had scarcely arrived when I hurled my guts into the bushes that entangle the same flowers I’m looking at now. I had sat back on my haunches, heaving loud broken sobs that came straight from the deep desolation I face.

God has a plan? I would laugh if I could force the muscles in my face to contract into a smile.

God has a plan. Doesn’t He always? Whether the plan is good or not depends entirely on what? His mood? Even as I write these words, I feel myself revolt.

Speaking of God this way goes against everything I was raised to believe and everything I have come to believe for myself. Did I really believe those things or was I just too far removed from suffering to entertain thoughts of doubt?

That presents another conundrum: Was I so self-absorbed that suffering around me made no difference to me even though I acted like I cared?

People have been dying since I can remember. I have attended funerals, have lent the grieving a shoulder to cry on, and I have even prayed for the bereaved. But in all of that, I still believed that God was good. It took one tragedy to completely pull the rug from under my feet.

I haven’t prayed since Joshua passed. I tried once, but it felt like the well had dried up and had been blocked with heaps of dirt.

If I were to pray now, what would I say?

God, did you deceive me all along? Did you lead me on, give me little victories just to show your true colors in the end? Why do you allow people that you claim to love go through such excruciating pain? Why?

Would He even answer? Or would He be silent as I begged for an explanation and a desperate way to exonerate Him of all blame?

His silence is nothing new. He was silent as Joshua’s body failed, as he breathed his last. A good God, indeed.

Now what? I am just expected to live in an incomplete world. Because a world where my husband no longer exists simply can never be complete.

“He will forever exist in your memories” but that’s the thing, though. I did not fall in love with memories. I fell in love with a person. A person whose body now lays six feet under, whose essence no longer exists in the same realm that I do.

This whole idea that, just like that, I will never see him again may make me mad. How do people survive this? Do they really?

I grew up on stories of food falling from heaven, seas being split clean through, fire falling out of the sky and dead men being brought back to life. I expected the supernatural.

That was probably why I never lost hope when Joshua suffered with illness. A miracle had been possible. It had been possible even after that last breath. And because I clung to my stubborn, stupid faith, I never considered life after Joshua.

It was just one of the many possibilities that I turned a blind eye to until it smacked me right in the face. My body is weak, but my mind is weaker. I don’t think I can survive this torment.

God, if you had any ‘goodness’ left, you would kill me too.

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four.

Ahhh, the anger. The pain. 🥺 How do people truly survive this? Please, drop a comment, let’s talk about this grief thing.

Also, what did you think of Ayo’s first-person POV?

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See you next Wednesday. 🤎

You’re nothing extraordinary, you’ve heard.

Everyone seems to look through you instead of at you.
If you were a color, you would be grey,
the kind people wore when they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

You skirt the edge of existence
as if space were a concept to be borrowed, not owned.

You’re nothing extraordinary, you believed.

Because you arrived without fanfare.
There was no prophecy carved into the syllables of your name.
No splitting of seas or calling down fire,
no endless victories to bring home.

You’re nothing extraordinary, you believed,

because you did not hang the moon
or decorate the sky with shimmering stars
for that special someone
who looks through you instead of at you.

You’re nothing extraordinary, they said.

And they are right
in the way that air is right in its quiet existence—
the kind we forget
until we remember we cannot live without it.

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They are right
in the way rain falls in earnest
and the sun rises each morning
without waiting to be applauded.

See, you don’t need to be the wisest man alive
or bend necks just by passing by.

That you keep choosing softness
in a world that glorifies sharpness is enough.

That you keep believing in Jesus
even when things do not seem to align is enough.

That you know Him
and you make Him known
is enough.

You’re nothing extraordinary, it’s true,

the way roots are never acknowledged,
even though they hold entire forests up.

Yet, the forest stands
because of them.

And the Kingdom of God
has always been built by things the world forgot to notice.

A/N: I upload poems every Monday. Subscribe and drop a comment if you liked it. 🤎

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5 Days before Joshua’s passing…

The stars shimmered, the full moon cast its steady glow over everything, and still, fear found Ayo. She looked at Joshua and the familiar fears surfaced. 

What if… She shook her head slightly to clear the thought.

Ayo adjusted the strap of the ventilator mask Joshua had just started needing, her fingers careful, practiced. The machine gave its steady rhythm beside the bed, a mechanical rise and fall that had replaced what used to come naturally.
She settled at his side and watched his chest. 

Everything slowed down after midnight. Everything except his breathing.

Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Ayo counted without realizing she was counting.

“Better?” she asked softly.

He blinked once.
Yes.
That was their language now.

She exhaled a breath of her own, her fears receding. Fear would not win. Not tonight. 
The dim glow of the bedside lamp poured quiet gold over him, seeming almost afraid to press too hard against him. She gently stroked his thinned, dark hair from his gaunt, pale face. Joshua had been handsome once. Now he lay, a shrunken case, a whisper of the man he once was.

Ayo traced a tender hand along his brows. She sighed in exhaustion. She’d started committing long hours to painting because they needed the money. The mural she was commissioned to do left her tired.

Her body ached. Her back protested every time she moved. Sleep tugged at her, heavy and insistent. There were dishes in the sink. Messages she hadn’t replied. A whole list of activities outside this room that had been quietly waiting for her to return.

But this—this was where she needed to be.

She smoothed back his hair again before placing her palm gently on his forehead like she did every night. Joshua closed his eyes like he did every night.

His skin was warm. Too warm. Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down.

Again, not tonight. She was starting to sound like a broken record.
Ayo closed her eyes and began.

“God… El-Roi,” her voice low but steady, “You see him.”
She spoke with certainty as a wave of calm settled her fears and quieted her doubts.

“You see every breath. You see every moment of this,” she said.
Her fingers trembled slightly against his skin, but she didn’t pull away.

“You are still God here.”
The world quieted as her words settled in the room around them. She had said them so many times they had become like a second skin.

Her watery gaze moved over his face.

“You said You heal,” she continued, softer now. “And I believe You.”
I do. I believe.

She leaned closer, her forehead almost touching his.
“So, we’re going to keep trusting You. Right here. Like this.”

She flicked her eyes close as a tear slipped free before she could stop it, tracing down her cheek. She let it fall. 

Ayo fought the heaviness inside her. It felt like a physical weight trying to drown her, but with all her might, she kicked against the waves and remained afloat with tenacious faith.

Her hand slid down to his, curling her fingers around his as much as she could. She cleared her throat.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice shifting with a practiced lightness, for him. “We’re not done yet, okay?”

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His eyes found hers and held.
Something flickered there, something she ignored. Ayo refused to acknowledge the resignation in his eyes or the silent plea urging her to accept an end that God could still rewrite. 

She squeezed his hand gently. He blinked.
“God’s still here,” she said. “He hasn’t left.”
She said it to more to herself than to him. 

The steady rhythm of the machine comforted her. As long as there was life, there was still hope. She would wait.

Ayo lifted her head, pressing a soft kiss to Joshua’s temple before settling into the chair beside him, her hand still holding firmly unto his.
I will wait because God can.

--------

Present day, 5 days after Joshua’s passing…

Crimson eyes stared back at Ayo from the bathroom mirror where she’d gone to wash her hands. She leaned against the wall and for a long moment, didn’t move, just observed her reflection. The person that looked back at her was unrecognizable. She looked spent and bleak, and her skin looked dull.

She blew out a breath and walked back to her spot on the chair beside the bed where she’d been huddled in since she returned from the hospital with her parents. 
It was late in the night now and everyone had gone to sleep. She curled on her side with a throw blanket over her.

Then, slowly, like muscle memory, she slid off the couch and lowered herself to her knees.

She sucked in a stunned breath. The floor was colder than she expected.
Ayo allowed herself to get used to the cold seeping into her before she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. 

The position was familiar. Her body knew it well. Months of late nights and whispered prayers had cemented it into her subconscious.

“God…” She choked on the syllable. 
She swallowed and tried again, pressing her fingers tighter together.

“God, I-”
Nothing else came. The sentence fragmented before it even formed. Ayo’s brows drew together slightly. She inhaled long and deep, and exhaled a slow and controlled breath, as if resetting herself.

This… Praying had never been hard before. Not like this.

She shifted on her knees and tried again, a little louder this time.
“God, please…”

The word please lingered, hanging in the air like a foul smell.
Please what?

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Her mind reached for something—anything—but every prayer she had ever known felt used up. She tried to speak in tongues but even that felt out of reach. Her spirit felt dried up and separated from God. 

It was at that moment, kneeling on the cold floor, that she realized that every day since they’d gotten Joshua’s diagnosis, she’d prayed the same prayers. It wasn’t out of selfishness but urgency. And she’d gotten the same answers.

Heal him.

No.
That one was gone.

Strengthen him.

Gone.

Let him breathe.

Gone.

Her chest tightened in the way that had now become familiar. She opened her eyes.
The room stared back at her indifferently as the night remained quiet.

Her gaze swept over the bedside table. The lamp was still there, her worn bible, now closed, sat atop the table. 
She stared at the empty spot on the bed as a memory teased her. She’d placed her hand on his damp forehead; her voice had been steady as she prayed over him.

You said You heal, she’d said. She’d believed it then. She still believed it now, just differently, because why didn’t He when she knew He could?

Ayo’s throat constricted. She didn’t want to feel this way. She’d been a Christian long enough to know better but here she was.

“God…” she tried again, softer now, but even His name felt heavy in her mouth. Like an intrusion.
Silence answered.

Her hands slowly loosened and she let them fall into her lap.
For a long time, she stayed there on her knees, staring at the floor, waiting for something—words, feeling, anything—to come. But the only thoughts that came were those traitorous ones.
You watched it happen. You could have stopped it. You didn’t.

Her fingers curled tightly against her palms until it hurt. But the thoughts did not stop swimming in her mind. It felt like she was tied to a huge rock and thrown into the sea, helpless but to sink into the deep.

She pushed herself up from the floor, the movement abrupt enough to break the stillness in the room.
Her breathing changed subtly, uneven now.

“I can’t…” she muttered, though she wasn’t sure what she couldn’t do.

Pray.
Stay.
Pretend.

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Her eyes moved once more to the bedside table, to the worn Bible that sat closed on it. They stayed there for a second longer than necessary.

Then she turned away and left the room. And this time, she didn’t look back.

A/N: Hmm… we’ve started to get a bit angry. 😤 Healing from grief is truly a messy, messy journey. Are you looking forward to how this anger plays out in the coming chapters too? Let’s talk in the comments!

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See you next Wednesday. 🤎

It was a cold night.
The kind where breath hangs in the air
like something unsaid.

You held me gently,
but firm enough to make it feel like forever.

Your palm on my cheek,
and words borrowed from
Khaled Hosseini’s pen—

For you, a thousand times over.

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What you did not say
was that you were gripping a memory
where we still worked.

What you did not say
was that I was the only one
still living inside that moment.

What you did not say
was that somewhere in your mind
another pair of eyes
had already begun to replace mine.

And that night,
the most perfect moment of my life,

was the moment
you realized
you could go a million times over

for her.

A/N: Poems every Monday, who says no? 😤 What did you think of this piece? Please, leave a comment.

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See you next Monday. 🤎

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Ayo rearranged the comforter around her while the door which kept her in self-imposed isolation rattled repeatedly under the force that was her mother’s hand. Or foot. 

She had not left their room in four days. Not since the day a part of her was placed in the ground and left there. 

She only knew it had been four days because she spent her time counting off the seconds till she could wake up from this nightmare that seemed to drag. 

She curled on her side facing the spot that still smelled faintly of her husband. Ayo exhaled a huge breath, pulling the sheets to her chin. 

She reached a frail hand to the pillow where his head would normally lay and stroked it gently, praying with her last might that she would wake up.

The commotion outside her room quieted for a moment, allowing her mind to wander to the day she’d purchased the sheets that wrapped messily around the bed now. 

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She’d finally decided to give painting a real chance, which was a good thing. But because she was scared that she would immediately change her mind, she did the most logical thing in the moment—she quit her job. 

It was after she’d clicked submit and watched the email disappear that the weight of what she had done hit her. 

She had made a major life decision and had conveniently forgotten to tell Joshua.

Ayo had stayed out for the remainder of the day searching for ways she would break the news to him. They had just gotten married and were still finding their feet—financially—together, she knew she had been incredibly selfish. 

And she knew, also, that he would support her decision still. 

He’d tilt her chin upward with a gentle hand until she met his gaze and he’d say something along the lines of ‘Hey, it’s okay’ and ‘I’ve always known painting was what you were made to do’ and ‘We’ll figure it out’. 

Knowing he’d react in the kindest of ways made her feel even worse.

She talked to God audibly as was her favorite pastime, studiously ignoring the strange looks that passers-by shot at her as she leaned against a big Magnolia tree’s trunk and mumbled away.

“I know this is what you made me for, but I also know this is not how you wanted me to start it. I’m sorry. But can you maybe help me figure out how to tell my husband, who I’m sure will act like it’s not a big deal, that our finances have been cut in half for the foreseeable future?” 
She paused as an even better idea formed. 

“Or—hold on—what if you made my next piece sell for like double the salary I was earning? That would be great, wouldn’t it? What do you say?”

The white, fragrant petals swayed gently above as she stopped. She sighed, slumping dramatically against the sturdy trunk behind her.

Ayo had contemplated begging her employer for her job back but immediately dismissed the thought. 

She was born to create art, that much was certain, and staying in a regular job had been safe. She did not need safe. She needed money, though. And a husband that was not stressed out by her impulsiveness. She pushed off the tree and continued wandering.

She had ended up in front of a store that sold beddings with a big neon sign that read ‘B for Beddings’ with a giant bed somehow attached to the words. She peered into the glass and immediately wrinkled her nose at the display set. 

It was a complete burgundy set. She hated the color, but Joshua absolutely loved it. She chuckled as she remembered the back and forth when they'd been decorating their home. 

They’d ended up with only colors they both agreed on, which was not a lot. She was still squinting at the Burgundy set when the door opened and a sales assistant walked up to her to ask if she needed anything.

Some forty-five minutes later, she was hoisting two huge bags that she swore weighed more than she did. In the bags were two complete Burgundy bedding sets and curtains in the same color. A peace offering. 

She’d hurried back home, changed the sheets and the curtains in their bedroom and made dinner. Ayo bounced on her feet, barely able to contain her excitement when she heard his car pull into the driveway. 

Joshua had raised a surprised brow when he saw the new decor, amusement glittering in his eyes. 

After she confessed to her deed of great consequence, he had told her that he’d always support her dreams, no matter what. 

He’d rubbed an appreciative hand along the silk sheets but told her it wasn’t necessary. She could use their regular colors because he knew she hated Burgundy. 

It’d brought tears to her eyes, the way he kept proving himself as the kindest man she knew. She’d kept the Burgundy.
........

Ayo jolted as a loud sound pulled her out of the sweet memory. She peeled her eyes open to see her father with a power drill and the door lying flat on the ground. Her mother rushed to sit on the side of the bed she faced.

No, not this side. Ayo thwarted her away from the space.

“Ayo, darling, please get up. You need to eat something.” 
Ayo pressed her face into her pillow. No. I need to wake up.

“Honey, can you hear me?” It was her father this time. “You cannot survive without food and water.”

Ayo shivered as hands that felt icy tried to raise her to a sitting position. Finally, she thought as everything went blank. 

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A steady beep ushered her back into consciousness some hours later. Her blurry gaze met the white wall she faced. She blinked to clear her vision and looked round. 

There was a needle in her hand and the wide hospital ward with several beds seemed to close in on her. Her parents rushed to her side. 

“Ayo…” Her mother whispered. “Oh, my dear, you scared me.” 

Ayo pushed up into a sitting position. Her head spun viciously. She looked around the room, her eyes skidding past her parents in search of the one person she’d hoped to wake up to. 

Later she’d wonder why she’d so readily searched for him when the only place he had been in his final days was trapped in their bed.

“Dad,” Her voice was hoarse after days of unuse. “Joshua?” 
Her father’s eyes watered as she watched. He grabbed her hand. Ayo turned to her mother. 

“Mom…mommy, where is my husband?” 
The words stumbled out of her erratically. 

Her mother climbed the bed and wrapped a firm hand around her. She brushed Ayo’s hair softly with her other hand. Ayo’s body shook in her mother’s tight hold. 

“No, Mom, Daddy…no.” Her eyes flicked between her parents, begging for the answer she needed to hear.

“It was all a dream, right? None of it happened. Joshua is still…he’s still here, isn’t he?” 

Her mother tightened her hold still. The firm hold did nothing to stop the searing pain that ripped through her ribs.

“I’m so sorry, my baby,” her father whispered. 

The scream was weeks in the making. It came from deep within her, communicating an agony she was ill-equipped to handle. It was guttural, the scream Ayo let out, as wave upon wave of her wretched reality slammed into her.

“Oh my God. No. No.” 
Her breath came out unevenly. She did not try to arrest the tears that streaked a messy path down her face. Ayo squeezed her father’s hand in a desperate plea.

“Please. It can’t—can’t be…we—we prayed, Dad,” she struggled to speak past the heavy pressure in her chest. 

“It was supposed to be a mi—miracle. Why?” Ayo managed to finish through wet, gasping breaths.

Her father lowered his head onto their joined hands and wept. Her mother was whispering words that Ayo was far past hearing. 

The pain she’d subconsciously been running from had caught up to her and it was merciless. 

“Joshua,” Ayo sobbed, her hand that was now free rubbed at her heart furiously as if she could dull the pain if she tried hard enough.

I’m sorry. I love you so much. More than my heart knows how to carry. 

Even as Ayo cried, she knew this kind of pain could never be erased. She didn’t know how she would survive it, or if she even would. Part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to. 

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up here: Chapter one, Chapter two.

Let’s Talk: Just me or is it getting real? 😭😭 I want to hug her and shield her from the pain, but pain demands to be felt. She’s going to have to break and there’s nothing we can do about it. 🤧

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See you next Wednesday. 🤎

You said You heal. 

The thought slipped in quietly that day. Ayo was unaware of the fact it had come to stay. 

The day he died, Ayo had sat in the chair by the left side of the bed—Joshua’s side of the bed in the room that had now become just hers with her fingers intertwined with his. 

The room was too quiet. 

There was no sound of gurgling lungs, no sound of uneven breathing. No sound of the normal she’d come to expect. She couldn’t shake off the wrongness in the silence around her. Lin had squeezed her shoulder, voice soft. 

“I’m so sorry.”

Ayo nodded.

She did not remember deciding to nod. Her body merely cooperated with what was expected of it while she watched like a spectator at an Olympic competition.

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There was movement around her. Her family were speaking in hushed tones that carried, someone fumbled with a zipper. But everything felt distant, like sounds drifting from the far end of a tunnel.

Her eyes stayed on his face at that moment.

He looked the same and… different.

The same pale skin but now it looked paler, almost ghostly. The same hollowed cheeks but with a lack of presence. The same mouth that had told her jokes now shut tight. 

She looked up as someone touched her elbow.
“Would you like a moment alone?”

She glanced around before she realized the question was hers to answer.

A moment alone.

They were already alone. It doesn’t make sense. She searched her brain, unable to form a response, instead, she reached out a hand and paused just a few inches from Joshua’s forehead.

Her hand was shaking. She observed it for a few seconds before she closed the remaining space and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It’s something she’d done a hundred times. Only this time, things were different. The movement was jerky in a way she could not control and there was no faint squeeze of his fingers in response. He didn’t stir.

She waited for it anyway. 

Ayo glanced around the room, her mind cataloging useless details:
The weather which was treacherously good. Joshua would have enjoyed the open window. 
The corner of the ceiling where paint was peeling just the slightest bit.
The way the curtains swayed delicately.
The fact that she forgot to charge her phone.

Her thoughts blended, one into the other until her eyes dropped back to his face. There, in that moment, nothing monumental happened.

After years of living with his diagnosis, she’d expected this moment to feel like a giant earthquake, instead, it felt like paperwork.

She squeezed the hand in hers slightly. Nothing. 

“He’s healed now,” someone said gently behind her. “He’s with the Lord.”

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The words floated past her and existed in the air like dust. That was when the thought came, it lodged in her windpipe as she stuttered an exhale.

You said You heal.

A silent accusation her mind was not capable of following up with at the moment. No other thought followed. 

She looked at his face again. He is still here. Even though the warmth slowly slipped out of his hand like changing seasons. 

Someone began explaining the next steps. The word ‘Arrangements’ was tossed in the air like confetti.

Ayo slowly rubbed the cold metal of his wedding band. We were supposed to grow old together.

Her eyes flicked close. The world tilted slightly, like the first crack in ice you’re still standing on. Her ears started ringing as time moved half a second too slow.

She almost startled when someone pressed a tissue into her hand.

Ayo looked down at it, confused.

Oh.

She touched her face with her free hand. She was supposed to be crying, but her face was dry.

Her body felt odd, inhabited by someone she did not know how to be. A widow.
Widow. 

The word felt foreign. It didn’t attach to her. It belonged to someone else in another story. Not her. Not me.

Someone cleared their throat gently. It was Lin. Ayo looked at her family gathered around with their eyes trained on her. She saw figures but did not see faces.

Lin started speaking, “We need to-”

“Wait.” 
Ayo's voice surprised even her. It sounded small and alien, like it came from a different person.

She squeezed his hand for the last time, her whole being urging him to squeeze back.

When that didn’t happen, she leaned down and pressed her forehead to his cooling skin.

This is real, her mind tried to explain in a language her heart refused to understand.

Out the window, she heard bursts of ordinary sounds infiltrating a moment that was still unreal to her. Birds chattered excitedly. Traffic was alive with the screeching sound of tires meeting asphalt and cars honking.

The world had not stopped. It seemed only hers had.

Slowly, carefully, she unclasped her hand from around Joshua’s for the last time.

A/N: In case you missed it, catch up with Chapter 1 here.

Let’s talk: What is this stage of grief called? Why isn’t she reacting as expected? I mean…they handed her tissues, but her face was dry. 😢

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See you next Wednesday. 🤎