Grieving, growing

When I wake

I see him when I wake,

soft and strong and solid.

My heart knows something I don’t.

Still, I’m unprepared.

Soft and strong and solid

as he holds me to the moment.

And still I’m unprepared

to leave in a dark whisper.

As he holds me to the moment,

my heart knows something I don’t.

I leave in a dark whisper,

and I see you when I wake.

My friend, Grief

Grief is a blanket.

You think it’s a comfort,

until it smothers you and swallows you whole.

It takes more than gives,

then it drowns you again

and only in death does grief let go.

Grief is a balloon.

Shiny and floating,

attached by a string and forgotten up high.

Quiet as a mouse,

it lingers like a shadow,

and you never even notice it’s there ‘til it pops.

Grief is an infant.

Needing constant care,

crying and cooing and blinking slow.

You feed it and change it,

holding on to patience,

hoping in earnest that it heals as it grows.