It’s only been recently that I’ve started to write regularly once more. I’m unsure when it became difficult for me to transfer my chaotic thoughts into concise words. It happened gradually, like an hourglass trickling backwards.
-Jessica Wen

“Every Sunday”

Fiction. Based on a True Tragedy.


This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

This is the home where I sleep without you.

There have been other places I have also slept. That home where I slept when you left had to be packed in boxes that set for almost exactly five years while I went away for thirty eight months and then struggled to be able to have a home those boxes could come home to.

This is the home where I sleep without you.

Tomorrow will mark seven years since you left. I miss you today as much as I have ever missed you. I have more flowers for you, Princess.

When I walked out of that hospital room–the last person to leave you, the last person to kiss you, the last person to pray with you and for you–my entire world and foundation crumbled. I knew they would remove your organs and that would be the end of you as I knew you and fell so deeply in Love with you. I even knew you were doing some others good by donating what organs were able. I don’t know how I drove home. The cutting of my heart-cords was complete. Over and over while doing all the right deeds to give you the most elegant sending off I could manage, in the dark of night and in broad daylight I asked myself endlessly, “What’s the point?”

What’s the point of whatever comes next in my life?”

Tomorrow will mark seven years since you left.

And I made it my purpose to look up into God’s face and tell Him, “Fuck you; I hate you.”

And I meant it.

The music of nature is tuneless and warped because it is created by God. Fuck God. “Fuck you, God.”

And I meant it.

You know I come see you often.

I was just there yesterday, out there where you hurt and bled so badly that you bled internally until your petite beauty could not. It is such an ugly place. The intersection has been reconstructed, but yours is no longer the only memorial marker; there are three others in a fifty foot radius. Yours is on that corner. I made sure they put it back.

Every Sunday I take you fresh flowers and pick up the garbage. I read to you and kiss your cold lonely sign. I wake up early to get there by daybreak because it was that time of day when you became an angel. You also have a pond. And a duckie. But you have something else. Something odd…like you. One white duck only one and an alligator that swim together every Sunday morning right to where I make your final ugly earthly home a beautiful place–beautiful for you and beautiful like you. And the alligator comes up to the fence and rubs its tummy on the ground and rests while I work. I know you know. I know you do all that because it’s just plain weird and precisely the kind of thing you would do. Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets 17, 18, 116, and 109 while an alligator sits by the fence six feet away listening (?) is indescribably you. It’s one of so many reasons why I continue to fall more and more in Love with you. Your final earthly home is my home; it is where my soul lives and breathes and sings because I know you know I am there and you come to see me…every Sunday.

I don’t know whether you are the duckie or the alligator but I know they/you work together; I have video evidence of your doings. Sometimes I figure the duckie is out there where I cannot go, so you send the alligator as an intermediary. Other times I wonder if you are the alligator. Most of the time it doesn’t matter but that you are there. Where you are is home. I go there because the suffering of not going where you are is too much pain to suffer, to endure.

Even though I cry sometimes when I go there, being there and doing for you helps me realize that there is Love in the suffering; suffering must have Love because all I have for you is Love. What I do for you is my joy. And I know today that it is how I give back…to God, the very same God I cursed. I know today that I cannot survive losing you without Him. You are God’s child, God’s angel, and my heart. And you are today and will always be my Love. I am writing this in the home where I sleep without you. I have more flowers for you.

I’ll be home in the morning,

Princess. I Love you.

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