No longer certain of anything

Each day begins the same way. In disbelief. It cannot be. Yet I know that the voice I long to hear is no longer. I know the age worn  finger tips are somewhere else. The tissues tucked up sleeves and stuffed into pockets are vestiges to be discovered and tossed, not revered. She never believed in an afterlife. Never thought she had lived before.  Never thought she was once a princess or a pirate. Just a girl from Brooklyn.  And so it is that we face her death.Over and done. Once. In the manner she lived.  We, who were there, surrounding her, think otherwise. Perhaps she could not see beyond or perhaps she didn't want to frighten us. Still children. Her children. Believing that she had merely paused. Closed her eyes and become young once more. With her energy released from her body, we all inhaled and took her in. It may have been for the last time, but we do not believe that she is lost. The stages of grief do not apply. The life may no longer be lived but she scattered herself everywhere. Will I spend my life searching for the pieces?