My Therapy

It became my therapy.
There came a time I think that others were tired of hearing me.
I know it.
But I still needed to talk, and monthly meetings were not enough.

It was my therapy.
My pen.
In those days I took his journal with me to his garden. I wrote him there.
In those days I would write in the nights, curled in a chair in my home. I wrote him there.
I wrote, and I wrote.
And those letters- composed in journals- became my therapy.
My release-

I knew he would never read them, the letters, but the moment they left my pen it was as if I spoke them, as if he heard and that made me feel better. I could write and write and write and he was never tired of hearing about how I loved him, how I missed him, how I wished he were here.

Oh how I wish he were here.

On his last birthday- his sixth birthday- I took his journals with me.
And I read.
I read through tears as I remembered the words. I remembered where I was.
My anger.
My guilt.
My pain.
So many, many pages and I could see myself.
Remember myself.
On all the hills and valleys of this journey I find myself on.

Now my pen has changed. I write him here. I write of him here.
And sometimes I find myself going back and reading what I had said, where I was on that night...
And I read your stories.
Your Therapy-
Where you were that night.
And I wonder where you are now.
And I hope you are well.



And to my fellow bloggers, I turned my blog into a book so I can go back and read it. If you are interested in doing the same to your blog follow this link. Thanks for writing!
Hugs-
Laura