Heaven’s Heartache


To: You (You know who you are. I am praying that you read this. I miss you terribly.)

I awoke from an afternoon nap. My immediate thought was of you. The air waltzed with particles of my burnt candle oil – purple orchid – and sunlit dust particles. The rays hung low in the sky – I knew dusk was upon me. The stars would blink their eyes soon and their crescent mother would cast its shadow on cherry blossoms and strawberry fields.

I straightened my legs and flexed my toes, and slowly sat up, letting my polyester blanket twist away from my freshly inked arm. My spine cracked, loosening the remaining dawn embedded in my neck. The left side of my brain knew that my limbs were moving, but the right – the one that held hands with my heart – told me I was frozen. I couldn’t move forward, and it was impossible to turn back.

Where did you go?

I felt safe in assuming that even the angels with the most rugged halos had abandoned me. If I draped my sheet around me, could I devolve into an invisible creature? One that not even Hubble could detect? If I was invisible, I could make wishes on countless celestial beings; the stars would never see me, and each would only hear my whiskey whispers. Maybe I’m not making sense; maybe my almond eyes are still stained with sleep.

Where are you now?

But now I am thinking how peculiar it is that when we stargaze, the sky looks motionless. Is it possible that the universe handles loss as we do? Frozen in fear shock. Perhaps I can be comforted by heaven’s heartache. But logically – says the left side – the world is still spinning. It is always spinning. We are always moving. Even when we think we are not.

– Samantha Prasad

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