Pot of Gold

I haven’t cried about you in a while.
I think about you every day, but I haven’t cried.
It doesn’t hurt my patchwork, glued together half way kind of mended broken heart any less.
It still aches in a way that pounds all the way down to the soles of my feet when I let it.

But, I haven’t cried.

I have met the other side of your rainbow now, for the first time.
The place where I see your good, far more often than your absence.
They told me it would happen, but the eye mask of pain blocked me from allowing myself to see it, until now.

It has flown by me at overwhelming speed and only now have I blinked myself to the other side of your rainbow.
Over here I feel your hand on my left shoulder when I need to make big decisions. Sometimes, it’s a scratch on the back of my head when I overcome challenging things; it shocks me into realising it in the moment.
It can be a tickle in my right hand, usually when I say how I really feel in a confronting conversation instead of swallowing down the words so desperately trying to escape me; the ones that make me feel like I fill a room because they are honest and spacious and warranted.

Over here, I think; well, what would Kim do?

Over here, I tell my sister I love her when we hang up the phone. Every time.
Over here, when the colours engulf me I laugh so loudly at a restaurant table across from my friends that strangers look at me in alarm; and I love it.
Over here, I rest.
Over here, between the hues of blue and orange I let myself surrender to having no plans, no control of anything but being where my feet are. There isn’t a pot of gold like I have read about, but there’s freedom of choice.

Independence and intellectual conversations that don’t involve phone on the dinner table or having to over explain because the people on the receiving end ‘just get it’ and if anything continue on with witty remarks and aligned rebut.

Usually, underneath the red and yellow I meet the potential I once wished I could embody. But now her and I are blending into the one woman and the red and yellow is inside of me rather than around me. It floats through me in tenacity and risk and feels like bonfire warmth.
There isn’t a pot of gold, but there is space for creation and writing and building and there’s energy.

I haven’t cried in a while about your absence because it’s filling me with the life I may not have lived so completely if you were here; a sort of miracle, confusing and brilliant, a life shattering and chemistry altering miracle.
There’s no pot of gold, for you were it all along; from wherever you are now, two years on.