I drew this a few months after Samuel died, when words were hard. Those first four endless months I was crushed with impossible weight. I moved slowly. My face was too heavy to smile, and I could hardly see anything happening around me. It was like having a concussion. I heard people’s voices through a fog, and their words didn’t make sense. They kept asking me to give direction to this landslide that was supposed to be my life. “Call me if you need anything.” They were being kind. I couldn’t. I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.
Please hold my hand.
I still feel this way a lot, but some days I’m stronger. I am starting to understand what I need. I’ve trusted a few people enough to ask, and they have been gracious. Some days I struggle out from under the rocks and limp around, my legs mangled and bruised. I laugh occasionally. I talk to people without my thoughts screaming, “Samuel’s dead, can’t you see me? He’s DEAD!” through the whole conversation.
Still, most days I just need someone to hold my hand.