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Bodies make poor vessels for grief. Yours cannot contain it anymore than the sky can hold back the rain. But you have power over where it falls, and it will water gardens if you allow it to. ╱ L. Innis
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Grief is a funny little thing. More so for people like me who can't seem to keep their focus away from other people. I watched for months on end; people smiling, laughing, and carrying on like the world hadn't been flipped on its axis because of the absence of the greatest man I've ever come to know.
I poured so much love into him. Into us. Now, it's spilling onto the floor, seeping into the floorboards, peeling back the varnish, and tainting all that's beneath it. I attempt, little by little, to hoist it all up into my hands before it mildews. But where am I supposed to put it? The answer is quite simple.
There is nowhere to put it.
It becomes a mess I'll never be able to clean up. A mess that often consumes me if I let it. It consumes me today as I sweep my hand beneath the pillow where his head used to lie. I clutch the sheets so firmly it turns my knuckles the lightest shade of white. I don't open my eyes. I just clench my teeth and resist the urge to spill tears onto my pillow for the umpteenth time this week. My throat burns, but it will smolder soon enough. It always does. It has to.
