Braxton would let me stay in bed, but he also knew how to get me out of it and then at the end… Hell, I would have joined him if I could’ve. Only for now, at least I’m up wanting to remember, to hold him, but Beds Are Not Substitute Graves.
Monday, February 15, 2021
Gospel 229 ~Beds Are Not Substitute Graves~
Hundred And Seventy-Five Rule
I AM a Billionaire right now, but does Braxton want to be with me forever? Always and forever in my heart, of course. Even now, a piece of him is around my neck. What about everything that is on my nightstand? I’m sure even today (Time-Travel, it’s still Saturday, his birthday). He wouldn’t want me to spend all day in bed mourning. No, that’s what we did on my Emergence Day. A bed has plenty of purposes, but it’s not as a grave. Being in a warm bed is pretty heavenly, which explains why I’m out of mine.
I’m also sure a bed isn’t made to be a shrine; again, we return to my nightstand. It’s been two weeks now or will be, and I keep Braxton’s last collar in his bed. His favorite plaything sits on his pillow in his room. Despite losing him, as I said on “that day,” they’re staying. Braxton’s bed is not exercise equipment, no matter how heavy it is to carry. With everything I have to heave at the Day Job, nothing compares. I keep thinking the whole world could tumble down, crushing me, only B III, bedding, daddy’s breaking heart. They’re not time machines either. As I told you before, I move my son’s bed to the right spot when I leave. Hell, just now, where do you think his pillow is with his toy? Right under the table as I talk to you. I’m still waiting for Braxton to go out, standing by the door.
That’s his territory, the backyard. Indiana Gone asked me where I would scatter his remains… I’ve only cried twice today, and it’s not yet 8:30 in the morning. Madam Justice, honestly, I only opened “the box” once. Inside’s a blue cloth, farther… didn’t wish any disturbance. Well, again, other than the pendant, I’m still wearing. Do I want to keep what’s left of my son sitting there dark? A bag of his hair, a clay paw print, even the certificate of his cremation? 5.5 x 8.5, how dreadful is that wanting to keep it representing Braxton. February 4, by the way, where was I when that was happening? In bed saying that it should have been me than him, honest. Today of all days, though, I’m out of bed, not living really. Existing, Remembering, and Thinking for now at least. Beds Are Not Substitute Graves
I Am Afraid Without Braxton