To Those Who Don’t

This isn’t for those who have never had anywhere to go. That’s the most obvious kind of lonely. I'm not talking to those people.
Because honestly, they're the "lucky" ones. Feeling only a slight and tiny ache when the holiday cards come through.

“From Us to You”

No No. This letter is for the ones who used to have somewhere to go. Who used to belong. Who were expected. Who sometimes ran late.

This is for the ones with memories of long tables, tiny family arguments, awkward kisses on cheeks, small talk and little traditions.
The belonging that slipped away and seats that simply aren’t theirs anymore.

This is for the ones who order chinese instead of breaking bread. 
The ones who don’t move. Don’t shower. Don’t set alarms. 
Who silence their phones so they don’t have to see ‘warm holiday wishes’ 

Stupid fucking wishbones and parades. Dyed eggs. Smells of pine.

This is for the ones who spin a lie at the work potluck, because “nothing” isn’t an acceptable answer in polite workplace conversation.
To those of us, I’m not going to wish you peace or comfort.
That’s bullshit. It’s cliché. It’s impossible. 

For you, for us, on those days, I wish for quick hands on the clock.
That the hours move fast and that the ache softens just a touch.
And that the day passes by quietly for all of us.

Because here’s the truth. 

We aren’t grieving a person.
We’re grieving the places we used to exist.
And that is its own kind of heartbreak.