Timeline Crack
At 24, the timeline cracked,
a fracture carved by a morning call—
the kind that freezes breath in your chest.
He hadn’t come home,
his body, still and silent,
laying flat in the West Village.
Gone.
Before then,
New York pulsed with life,
a rhythm that matched my own.
Days spilled into East Village nights,
Prospect Park mornings,
speakeasies, comedy shows,
the city’s energy filling a part of me
I didn’t know was empty.
My twenties felt like freedom—
exploration, ambition,
soaking in the stories of strangers
who played the game better
or worse,
than I ever could.
And I played it well,
leaning into the role,
a pretty, petite blonde with a laugh that charmed,
eyes that promised
I wasn’t as sharp as I was.
It worked.
The game rewarded me,
and I let it.
Then I fell in love.
He was my teammate,
my gym buddy,
my co-chef in the smallest of kitchens.
My best friend who saw me,
all of me,
and stayed.
But one day,
he quit the game.
There was no memo,
no final move—
just the heaviness of a black bag
and the weight of absence.
The constant
I didn’t know I relied on
was gone,
leaving a silence
that roared louder than the city ever could.
For a time,
there was only sorrow.
A cruel, cold world
I wanted no part of.
I searched for him
in the corners of my mind,
in the shadows of my days,
in the empty space beside me.
And when I couldn’t find him,
I longed to follow.
But then—
a whisper,
a glimmer,
a reminder.
There were still oceans
to dive into,
mountains waiting for my feet,
horizons untouched by my eyes.
Mother Nature stretched her arms wide,
calling me into her stillness,
her vastness,
her endless embrace.
She became my guide,
a quiet light through the dark,
teaching me that loss,
too, is a path.
And so I walk,
split between two worlds:
the matrix of noise and ambition,
the source of all that simply is.
One loud, relentless, hollow;
the other eternal, soft, whole.
I do not know where he went,
but in seeking,
I have found myself
between the two.
Learning, slowly,
to live in both.
Navigating grief, especially absent grief, in a city as vibrant and relentless as New York, felt like a cruel paradox. The constant hum of 'NEW YORK NEW YORK NEW YORK' that once fueled me now amplified the silence of his absence. It’s a different kind of challenge when your world shatters, but the world around you keeps rushing by, seemingly oblivious to your pain. I remember those early days, walking through Manhattan, feeling like an invisible ghost. Every street corner, every deli, every 'citibike' whizzing past, seemed to hold a memory. It wasn't just the person I missed; it was the future we'd planned, the routines we shared. Absent grief, for me, was a constant echo, a phantom limb ache for a presence that was suddenly, brutally, gone. It wasn't a linear process of sadness; it was a swirling vortex of confusion, anger, and an overwhelming sense of incompleteness. One of the hardest parts was the expectation to 'move on.' How do you move on from someone who was so intertwined with your daily existence, especially when their departure was so abrupt? I found myself clinging to fragments, replaying conversations, revisiting places we loved. I quickly learned that healing isn't about forgetting; it's about learning to carry the weight of absence without letting it crush you. It’s about building a new life around the space they left behind, not trying to fill it. Small acts became my anchors. Taking long walks in Central Park, finding quiet corners even amidst the chaos. I started to understand the deep wisdom in the phrase, 'PROTECT YO HEART.' It wasn't about shielding myself from pain, but about tending to my wounded spirit, fiercely and tenderly. I learned to allow myself moments of joy without guilt, understanding that laughter didn't diminish my love or my sorrow, but rather created space for resilience. There are no easy answers when grief arrives unannounced, especially absent grief. But what I've discovered is the incredible capacity of the human spirit to adapt, to find beauty in unexpected places, and to re-learn how to breathe when it feels impossible. It's a journey of profound solitude, yet it's also where you realize the strength you never knew you had. To anyone else walking this path in a bustling city or anywhere else, know that your pain is valid, your process is unique, and finding your own way to 'live in both worlds' – the one you lost and the one you're rebuilding – is a testament to your enduring heart.
