It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t seek approval. One moment you’re brushing your teeth, making lists, watering the plants that never blossom as you envisioned. And then— a silent shock in your chest, a breath that becomes ash before you exhale. Loss arrives like a demolition ball, but somehow more gradually, as if time slows down just to let you see it happen. The moment expands. The seconds struggle and resist breaking apart. It swings broadly, tearing through the framework of the life you so meticulously built. It splinters chairs still warm from dialogue. Yanks photographs off the walls, names from your lips, moments from their concealed spots. And you remain there— hands outstretched, as if you could catch bricks or halt the swing with a mere whisper. There’s no heroism in this. No poetic sorrow, no candlelit grieving. Just the simple wreckage: a shoe still laced next to the bed, a voicemail left untouched, a spot at the table you still set out of habit, out of hope, out of denial. People claim that time eases the pain. But time isn’t a healer— it’s the dust that gathers over the ruins. It’s the quiet that follows when the commotion finally fades away, when the wrecking ball, content, hangs still in the air, swaying only in your dreams. You attempt to rebuild. You discover pieces that no longer fit. Doors lead to nothingness. Stairs lead nowhere. You pretend it’s a home. You welcome joy inside, but she looks around apprehensively at the fissures. Still, you clean. Still, you draw breath. Still, you plant seeds in soil strewn with splinters. Somewhere beneath the rubble a voice starts to hum. It sounds like your own. It resonates with survival. ©️ James Michael 2025