the searing pain on my back

Some people fade with grief. Others burn. I’m ash.

I watch the sun from behind the lace curtain. It bleeds into the glass like juice from a bruised peach. It shouldn't be allowed to look that soft. Not after everything.

They say grief takes time. They don't say what kind. They mean the kind that smells like disinfectant and stale toast. The kind that curls under your skin and stiffens.

Some days I think the sun is trying to say something. It pulses louder than my mother’s voice, warmer than the casserole dishes left at the door. It hums in a language I almost understand. Like someone whispering underwater.

Today, it says: Are you there?

I say nothing. Not out loud. But I blink once, slowly. I think it counts.

They’ve stopped knocking. The neighbours, the school. Even Aunt Lisa with her banana bread and her flannel hugs. No one likes a girl who talks to a star.

Yesterday, Aunt Lisa came over, with her batch of freshly-baked cookies and banana bread that smelled exquisite. My mother was never home so as I opened the creaking door carefully, she tipped her head inside, saw my face, and left without a word.

That was that last I saw of her.

They used to tell me I was special. Now they say I’m coping. A word that sounds like a crutch, or a wound that refuses to scab.

I don’t feel special at all. 

In the hallway, the photograph of my brother has tilted again. I leave it that way. It’s the only thing in this house that’s been brave enough to fall.

The sun keeps speaking.

It says: You’ll meet someone today.

I press my forehead to the glass.

Outside, the pavement hums. The rooftops shiver with heat. I don’t know who I’m waiting for, only that something is coming.

I get up from my bed, it groans under my weight, and I stroll to the kitchen, a note hanging on the cream-coloured door reads:

You can have sausages for breakfast today, boil yourself an egg too 

Xx Mum

How many times have I told her to leave the note beside my bedside table?