Our grief is an ocean; a river on which we drift
our whole lives through.
For the lucky, we float. Mostly. But then
A minute? a month?
submerged beneath the water
throwing up gasping breaths to roar our pain into the aching, empty white January sky.
The ripples from our easy wake
foam and pound upon distant shores, stirring us.
But it is the cold water of the close which
numbs us, in the end.
I am sorry
for your loss.
I wrote this a little while ago now but it never felt like the right time to post it, for various reasons. Now is not the right time either, but to that end I realise there is never actually a right time for anything, so here it is.