At First, Grief
At first, grief is the blinding that greets me when I reach toward the total eclipse of a late-August sun for the one I’ve lost. The years drift by— muzzy— half-empty bed abandoned chair, and left-behind shoes still waiting for one more invitation to whirl beneath the fairy lights and moonwash of the eternal dance floor of bandstands, hopes, and dreams. Until grief— like my soul, and my refusal to forgive— softens into the long, low keening of a mother whale, her notes of longing bobbing along the salted complexion of the living sea— scatter-lit bottles of mercy and messages, each carrying the same heartfelt refrain: I miss you more.
