I Can't Remember the Good Days

Someone asked me recently about a good moment from the past year. Something small. A day that felt light.

I opened my mouth, and nothing came.

It's not that there were none. I know there were. I laughed at things. I sat in the sun. I ate meals, I went places, I said “that was nice” and probably meant it. But when I go looking for those moments now, the shelf is empty.

Grief takes up the whole room. It doesn't leave space for anything else to stay.

So the good things come in, and they pass through. Like light through a window. For a second the room is brighter, and then it's just the room again, and I can't tell you what the light looked like.

I am not empty. I am just full of something else.

For a long time I thought this meant something was wrong with me. That a grateful person would remember. That a strong person would hold on to the good and let it carry her.

I don't think that anymore.

I think a heart that is carrying this much simply can't hold one more thing, not even something light. It's not ingratitude. It's tiredness.

There is one thing that stays, though not as a memory. Every morning, before the streets wake up, I walk with Tobby. I couldn't tell you what happened on any particular walk. But my feet know the way, and something in me knows that this hour is mine. Maybe that's what good looks like for now. Not something I remember. Something I keep coming back to.

If the good days feel far away tonight, I made a quiet video for you.

If you can't remember the good days either, you are not broken. Would you tell me what it's like for you? Or you can simply stay here for a while.

With love, from HerWay

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