Balms

Butterfly kisses from friends that cover my face like outdated flyers on a coffee shop bulletin board.

Pillows to punch and grip and scream into and rip open and pet.

So many shoulders to cry on.

So, so many shoulders to cry on.

Late-night texts to and from The Family.

Two months’ worth of takeout and counting.

The familiar, stinging relief of the first drag off a bummed cigarette.

Shared smiles that let me know this feeling of rediscovered closeness with my friends is real.

Lots and lots of prayer.

So many nights of cancelled plans.

Terrifyingly vulnerable conversations with my therapist, boss, barista, and hair stylist.

Heartbreakingly heartwarming times of public communal mourning.

Hot chocolate, books, and bubble baths.

The softness of my fleece blanket: the first thing I felt when I collapsed onto my bed after hearing the news, the last thing I feel as I drift off to sleep, and the thing that catches my tears on the nights I cry myself awake.

The friend who told me “you do know that you aren’t required to keep it together, right?”

Deep belly laughs and indulgent moments of joyful, carefree bliss.

The lingering hugs that became almost painfully comforting.

Each friend who refuses to drop the embrace, even though people are starting to stare.

It takes so much more than time to heal my wounds.