drop

if you asked me what grief feels like, I’d tell you to imagine driving

through the mountains. the road curves gently

through the base of a towering mountain range, slopes littered

with cedars and subalpine firs; huckleberry shrubs or wildflowers,

depending on the season. the leaves might be green, or gone,

maybe the vibrant orange of autumn. unimportant:

the colors, the season. important: the beauty, the serenity.

without warning, the road ends and there is a great nothingness

beyond you. you fall into the void and cannot see the bottom.

will you fall forever?

the slopes and their trees pass in a blur of greens and browns,

but you fall as if through sap—slow

and suffocating.

and then there you are, back on the road. pavement beneath

rubber, hands on the wheel, in the car.

the road is the same again—mountain peaks stretching

towards clouds, trees and shrubbery distinct.

that terrifying drop towards the void just a bad dream,

easy to forget—until it returns. you turn left

when you should have turned right and you’re falling again,

down

down

down

and think, this is it, I’ll hit the end soon,

but you don’t. you are safe on solid ground.

this falling happens again and again and again. you notice

each drop is shorter. there is momentary peace

and the moments grow longer, give false hope of permanence.

you drive through the mountains, admire

beauty through a lens of fear. you don’t know when

you’ll fall again, but you know you will.