One breath in front of the other. 

A mantra for peace, for grace. 

An acknowledgement of the only way forward

inevitable and daunting.

In the weeks following your last, I followed mine through the universe. Deep. Ancient. Intuitive. 

I filled my lungs with the story of your pain and with the story of our love. 

Long belly breath to ease suffering. Following the cyclical path in and out. 

Blood oxygenated swirling, seeking, healing, aging, dying. 

To breathe was to live. My last promise to you, my love.

By mid-November my body revolted, disgusted by the waste, the pain. 

I want to suffer as you did. To know the depth of your pain. 

To grasp that moment when it all just… stopped.

You stopped. I held my breath and then breathed in so slowly so you could find a home in my heart. That piece of you. That last breath, my promise that we would step into that next moment... that next breath together.

That tickle became a tightness, became a cough. 

I am poisoned by my need to hold onto our suffering, your pain. 

Not ready for our story to be done. 

Unable to push to pull that air that life any deeper than my broken heart.

And there are nights when I can’t breathe at all. 

I won’t breathe and my body revolts. 

I hyperventilate into your void.

What is this commitment that I’ve made?