Grief, to me, is love turned stagnant (rotten!) — a love that, robbed of its object, has no place to go. It lingers within, unmoving, unflowing, and in its stillness, it begins to decay. This rot — the heaviness and stench of it — seeps into everything else that inhabits the same space: new loves, new experiences, new joys. All become veiled and tainted by this greedy sorrow. What I’ve come to realize is that to prevent this from happening, love must remain in motion. It must flow, even when the beloved — the person, place, or time passed long ago — is no longer there. How, then, do we keep this love flowing? One way is to allow ourselves to remember without resistance. Write about them. Create in their honor. Weave their presence into your days not as shadows, but as light that lingers. For love, when kept alive, cannot rot. It will ripple through you, through others, through rooms of space and the fabric of time, endlessly becoming.