If I was run over by a train and had every bone in my body broken, I wouldn’t be asked if I’m okay. You could look at me. The splints, casts, and traction and repeated surgeries would tell my story. 

A parent who loses a child has every bone broken, every ligament snapped, and every muscle pulled beyond endurance. Yet you ask if I am okay. I tell you “I am coping.”  It is not true. But you are uncomfortable with my real answer. 

I am not okay. How can you not see every shattered piece of me? All rearranged willy-nilly into some grotesque upright walking zombie? I am screaming inside. I walk by a mirror and feel surprised to see my nose is still where it was. It feels as if it should be down near my knee somewhere, that’s how broken I am. Crushed. Not entirely human. Walking. Talking. Breathing. Living a life you cannot see. My shattered life.