found in my journal from 2008:

Some nights I cannot sleep or breathe or break this grief in me.

There can never be peace--not when I touch his limp clothing or want to show him the baby birds growing in our geraniums, the sight of their open beaks making me swoon; not at midnight when the bare blackness is chloroform and the world I knew is decimated, the shards strewn in this void of time and space.

What is left after his death? Toil and grief--detritus.