Pathetic Or the Bright Side

The line went flat as I heard the final beep, my body tried to combat the swirl of limbs into a heap. His warm body on the bed, a fate I refuse to speak, still processing he's dead and a future now turned bleak. My mother tries to tell me, "Honey, these wounds will heal, someday you'll agree there's a purpose for life's faulty deal." Now, I try to take her words to heart and tolerate her potent positivity, but for that I am too "smart" blinded by my natural negativity. My mother calls it the bright side, but I honestly call it pathetic, because a fake smile doesn't mask dad died or make my lonely walk down the aisle poetic. By: Chelsea P. Stone Note: On my story of grief and loss.