It is Sunday and I am in mourning.

I whisper an apology to the gentle breeze and shut the windows and doors. I glance at the memories planted in the garden and look beyond them, towards a humble home with shut windows and doors. And I wonder just how hungry the rooms are, how eager are the dusty boxes, and how empty are those halls. I wonder at the loss, at my inability, at the (im)possibility of the future. I look around my humble home, my cottage by the river, and I sense an anger emanating from the walls. I send a songbird to tap at the windows across from me. He fails to return to me. I hear a song nonetheless: “This isn’t like you.”

It is Monday and I am in mourning.

My words have lost their soft eloquence. When I speak, every other word is underlined in a pained red. I rest a hand on my chest and feel the anger of the walls residing within. I caress the skin down to my stomach and find a hole that a ravaging appetite cannot fill. I feel a physical ache take over as I sit silent in the dark. A great many exasperating waves wash over me, red and orange, bright flashbangs blinding me. “This isn’t like you.” The song is louder now, more fervent, voiced by my past and my future, caring for the present.

I pause. I look around my hungry rooms and empty halls; I feed my hunger with companionship and conversation. I find myself pleasantly sated. I find myself opening the door, just a crack. I find myself watching the mesmerizing ache rush in to fill the space inside. It flashes red-orange-blue-black and calms down to a gentle, sorrowful pink. It pools against the closed windows and doors, awaiting its release.

Unnoticed, my songbird returns. He is weakened by the snow storm, tired from the effort. Snow on his wings, he mimics the voice of a dear friend: “I want to go now.” I taste the bittersweet truth and swallow it at long last. “Please let me go now.” I refuse to wipe the snow from his wings.

There are attempts to overwrite activities and songs, but the hole within my being runs deeper and sharper and cuts cruel chunks across my skin. It is an angry gash, upset at my action and inaction, at my cowardice and my bravery. “You have been cowardly,” it snarls, “you refused yourself the dignity of care.” I feel its breath on the back of my neck as it traces a path up to my forehead. “But you are brave and capable,” it whispers, “a whole, complete person.” I feel its gentle kiss upon my forehead and weep silently.

It is Monday and I am in mourning.

I find a sliver of strength within my newly organized boxes. So, I fill the gap with my words and paint images of the future on my ceiling. When I awake at night with a cry in my chest, I clutch at my heart and breathe into that clear, blue sky. Clenched eyes reveal I still have tears to shed. I am surprised at my own tenderness and laugh gently at the naivety of my broken heart. How can it wrap itself in cloaks of the past and expect not to boil under the burning anger of the present?

It is Tuesday and I am in mourning.

My empty halls now echo with the laughs of my friends and family. In the kitchen, there are signs of life, a place well-lived in. The memories of sweet people sitting cross-legged and restless, with hot drinks and baked treats, have left an imprint on the ground. I unroll a bright blue carpet, unlock the windows, and let all the light in. The gentle, sorrowful pink settled by the windows and doors begins to leak out like a low, rolling fog. The songbird remains on my mantel.

I claw out the lies I was told and replace them with a simple reminder: Inaction proved the true intention. I carve it into the walls of my heart. I promise all my selves to remember it. I owe myself to remember it.

My songbird flutters his wings as I tell him, “People are motivated by impulse and desire. They construct worlds around these two pillars to rationalize and justify what they had already planned on doing. I had planned on loving, absolutely and unconditionally, because I desired and deserved that reciprocity. It was impulsive, it was foolish, and its presence is still desired.”

My songbird sits on my windowsill and repeats back to me, “it is still desired.”