silence
 
'when someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time - the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.  gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone.  just when the day comes - when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever - there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.' - john irving (from 'a prayer for owen meany')
 
this was the day of the funeral last year.  i spent my day today unpacking the boxes of a man who makes my heart swell.  last year, i buried the heart of my childhood.  this year, i uncover and prepare the heart of myself as a woman, a place that is home. 
 
and i'm ready for all of that.  and i ache for all of that.
 
but still, sitting alone in my house tonight, i'm a little girl all over again and the warm, salty rivers still flow down my cheeks.