My past week reads like Dickens.
It was the week of endings, it was the week of reckoning.
It was the loss of sound and the loss of someone dear.
It was a silence that screamed, and a goodbye that echoed.
It was the numbness of disbelief and the ache of memory.
It was a week where I still heard, but no longer understood.
It was a week where I spoke, but half my world no longer spoke back.
It was the unmaking of words — where recognition became a stranger,
and the simple gift of language disappeared behind a closed door.