March Moves

March moves from hot to cold, from bareness of the landscape to deep green, from life to thoughts of death. March takes another life, someone a decade younger. Someone who has published my work on four occasions. I wonder again how life can be moving along and then just stop. Click. Off. In the middle of projects, people depending on you, work undone, and yet the body fails anyway, it doesn’t matter in the end. The body is not enough. It can’t hold together. Someone else is left with all those juggling balls in motion, left to catch them and put them away. Left to question why their loved one was taken — here, then gone.

March moves on, closing out one day, pushing into the next, fighting to get to the end. Sun, rain, more rain than sun. The end comes hard this year. Because the last day marks the fifth anniversary of my father’s death. And it brings everything to the table again. Loss. Too much of it. The three people most important to my world’s foundation. Jobs. Identity. All gone.

While I used to be enough, now I am not enough. I cannot do enough. I cannot be enough. The line between nothing and something is tight, and I try to balance on it, and I teeter. Because I am not enough, I will fall, and I know it.

And so March moves on like a lion and it will go out like a lion, and I hear the roar and it is loud and all I can do is cover my ears and let it roar and let it take everything with it.


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