A dog interrupts. One hand drops the other types. Tea cools. The kitchen holds worn recipes. Next month the dog leaves. Grief has a scent.
Seed catalogues pile up, sprouts crowd a windowsill, knees grind in rocky dirt. By September, apples sweeten and the deer leave bitten vines, a pail waiting at dawn.
May 30, 2023
Grief / Home / Loss / Resilience
Rain hammers through the night as she stands among flooded fields, feeling his absence rise like another storm, every memory sharp as the wind that swept his face from her...