A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we even write to an image. You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds. This week our group writes to the word- air. This will be an excerpt from my new WIP for a new romance contemporary, What the Storm Didn't Take.
Mom’s cookies, Conner’s unwavering loyalty, our friends’ devotion, Garrett’s memorial…that did it. I finally started to cry. Excusing myself quickly for the truck, I needed privacy. The present was a heavy place to be in, the memories- both good and bad were incredibly suffocating.
It’s been a year, it doesn’t seem possible. You’ve been gone a year, and I’m carrying this grief around like a fifty pound sack of feed. It’s heavy, so heavy, but, I can’t put it down. I haven’t gotten where I need to be.
Why does it feel like such a burden? Nothing about you should be a burden. You were my husband, we have a family. I wish I could shake this hefty sorrow, but, it just won’t let me be. I gulped trying to take in some air.
Mom knocked on the truck window. I sat inside, letting the vents blast me with relief.
“Are you okay, honey?” She asked as I rolled down the window.
“I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed.”
Mom surveyed the work we’d accomplished. The orchard was looking awesome. “You’ve got so much support, Rachel. Everyone loves you so much and wants to be there for you. I’m glad you aren’t mad I asked some of our friends to help.”
“When will I stop being sad?” I felt like a little kid again, asking when the hurt would go away. Mom was supposed to know all the answers. Now, I was a mom and it terrified me that I didn’t know it all yet.