In Step with Grief

I took a walk with my grief

and she didn’t ask where we were going.

She simply matched my pace—

one step behind, then beside—

like a shadow I hadn’t noticed

stretching long in the late afternoon.

She didn’t speak much.

Just hummed old songs

I forgot I knew,

the kind that ache in the bones

but never reach the tongue.

When we passed a playground,

she sat on the swing

and looked at me

like I’d left her there once

without saying goodbye.

We wandered into a bookstore,

and she ran her fingers over the spines

like braille she didn’t need to read.

She didn’t want to buy anything—

just wanted to feel

what other people had finished.

At the crosswalk,

she reached for my hand.

Not out of fear,

but to keep me from disappearing.

We stopped for coffee

and sat in silence,

watching the steam rise

like smoke signals

we couldn’t interpret.

Later, we stood at the edge of a river.

She didn't ask me to jump,

nor did she pull me back.

She only stood there,

the quiet between us

louder than any scream.

And I stayed.

She did not lead,

but every turn I made,

she had already traced in quiet.