Little Red Prius

I looked at the car. It was perfect. Two weeks and a hideously overpriced Hertz Ford rental later and my car was finally ready.

The red Prius gleamed in the sunlight like a glowing orb. The paint new and rich like a cherry colored apple. The body shop had replaced the side panels and the door, fixing that which could be fixed. They had detailed and aligned it even. Like I said, perfect.

Some things can’t be fixed. Like my brother in law’s death at 54. He left a thirteen year old along with a brother and mother felled by his heart attack. I see it all. The grief is palpable. Like the taste of burnt toast it lingers.

That grief is still there after 103 days, but who’s counting? I am. I want my husband back, the one who smiles, but I have learned the hard way that you don’t always get what you want.

And who am I to put a timeline on grief? I am still grieving my own loss. The loss that broke me in half. Before and after. And, years later, I think if I was my car, I would say fix the inside, not the exterior. Open my hood and patch up my broken womb and let me have a baby Prius that cries.

Alas no. Some things are not so easy.

Yet, why does everything have to be so fucking hard?