Is it real if it doesn’t leave it’s mark?
Like my first real pet, a black and white kitten, the runt of the litter
Who left white scratches on my knuckles and passed away two years ago
Like the family trip to Canada, and the string of lakes like pearls and falling rain
And the slight pitting on the front of my right shin that will never go away
Like my grandmother who passed away last summer
And left her dark skin and fine cheekbones on my face
Like you, and our love, and these tear tracts on my face
It was real.
Love
“The pain was something I could taste, dry as chalk on the tongue. It was something that filled up all the hollow spaces in my chest as I tried to breathe, like drowning in salt water. ”
– G.A. Buba on grief
G.A. Buba 