The extended stay

I invited grief into my home.

At first, I thought it would be a short stay,

And I ushered it through my doors

Acknowledging it in all its pain.

But it has taken residence

in ways I did not foresee.

sometimes, it is quiet,

and I wonder if it has gone.

But then I turn a corner to find

its laundry piled on my bed

its junk amassing in my basement

its dishes towering in my sink

its dirt blustering across my floor

its towels mildewing in my bathroom.

It invited its own guests into my home

Anxiety decided to stay.

Now, we eat together.

Grief says, “Remember when…”

Anxiety says, “What if…”

And I say, “Can we just enjoy the meal?”

They follow me.

Grief says, “Remember the loss?”

Anxiety says, “What if we lose more?”

I say, “Can you not be so loud?”

They interrupt me.

Grief says, “Remember the pain?”

Anxiety says, “What if we hurt more.”

I say, “Can you let me think?”

It has been over a year,

and finally, I break.

I yell, “Why are you still here? Why are you still so loud?”

Grief says, “You invited me to stay.”

Anxiety shrugs, chews its nails

and says, "We only want to protect you."

"This is not your home. It's mine!"

There is a knock at the door.

In unison, they say, “You should get that.”

I cry, “I have no more space.”

They say, “She will make space.”

I open the door.

She does not speak

But she steps across the threshold,

and puts a warm mug in my hands.

I say, “Who are you?”

She says, “I am healing.”

I say, “Why now?”

She says, “Because you are ready.”