#rainarose

Walking through a field of withering lilies,  I water inevitability- hands trembling with ritual,  offering hope to that which no longer breathes.  The petals curl, like old promises,  their scent a memory of something I once cherished.  Every step echoes yesterday, a melody unforgotten,  every gesture rehearsed in silence.  I speak to the petals and stems,  despite their deafening silence, I know I am heard; I always have been with them, as with you.  How long can I cradle what was never mine to save?  How long until the soil forgets the shape of my silhouette?  And still, I move-  not forward, not back, just deeper, into the rhythm of surrender; of hope and love...

I feel his gaze lingering on me as I brush past strangers, finding my seat; and as though fated, right across from him. 

I shift in my seat a little, adjusting myself, to get a better view of the man I've always loved and longed for.  The man, my very being, was made for...

His eyes don't falter; reading me, undressing me, as though he knows just what he does to me as he runs them up and down my body,  in admiration, in approval. 

The room bustles with noise, movement and everything meant to distract,  yet the only thing that holds my attention, is him, a genuine threat.

A woman dressed in sultry, crimson red settles down next to him, lacing her hand in his, claiming him for herself;  letting everyone, but especially me,  know that he is taken, or perhaps, that he is not for my taking. 

My heart skips a beat at the realisation that he isn't mine, never was, never will be...

His gaze softens as he finds mine, almost apologetic. 

As I stand to leave the room, giving one last glance, at what could have been...

Between my silence and his,  words that have never been spoken,  longing to break free. 

A fading melody we'd never hear again; our hearts beat together, ached together, one last time...

If the moon never reads these letters, and you never return to these words — know this:

I wrote you as though you were holy, as though love were not a risk, but a rite.

I wrote you as historians would, preserving your memory in words, in letters, in places you were cherished and loved, remembered; not by the ones you chose but by the ones who chose you anyways.

And I would do it all again — bleed ink into midnight, press pages to my chest, whisper your name like prayer, like poetry, like the only truth that’s ever lived in me.

You live in my every breath, every waking moment— a constant echo of a life I must now live without you. I write these words in agony, grieving the unknown of tomorrow, aching for one more morning wrapped in your arms. We live knowing tomorrow is never promised. Yet how cruel it is that this goodbye feels eternal. If I could, I’d fold every goodbye into a paper plane and send it soaring back to yesterday— to the moment I still had you, to undo what was spoken, to hold you again, knowing it wouldn't be the last. I wish the wind would carry them far from us. I wish the rain would wash them away. I wish those words never left your lips. I wish I didn’t miss us like this. But wishes are paper planes too— lost to the wind, folded in silence, never quite reaching home.

Yet if paper planes can find their way home, against all odds, as I hope we do, carried by gentler skies, forgiving all that's been lost, perhaps in another time, we’ll exist again— without goodbyes.

© Raina Rose 

Sadness, sorrow, and depression. The same base emotion, but varying so beautifully, in intensity, in pain. Sadness, a familiar friend, for life cannot be lived without ever experiencing a touch of sadness. Though fleeting, it can be felt deeply, from subtle gestures that distract, to decisions that breaks hearts. Sorrow, a little heavier. As though the weight of the world, has been set upon our shoulders. To bear it. To dwell in it. Knowing time will heal; hoping, praying. Depression, something that can’t be helped. The furthest reach of sadness, that stays unwelcomed for as long as it pleases. There isn’t any particular routine that cures us of it, some days we just breathe better thinking it’s over. But it lingers, in the shadows, rearing its head when we least expect it. Another downward spiral to where it all began months ago, here we go again… The thing that sets them all apart is the depth of the same emotion, the same pain. Pain, the one significant thing that makes a poet bleed words beautifully. I could go on again, but maybe about love, about us and even that, led me down the path of sorrows, as I watched you pack your bags. Sorrow and love then, does not seem so different for a poet after all…

Stamped, sealed, and ready for flight– written for a man with a scar, a sacred relationship.

Words that bend and still time at will– for him, I've bled myself onto these pages over and over again.

Nowhere to be found, yet his lingering presence– tells me he still lives in the folds of my breath, in the lull between heartbeats, where his name makes a home in mine.

I leave each letter by the windowsill, hoping the wind carries it to where he is— or to where he once was...

He never wrote back, and yet I never stopped— because that’s what we do for those who taught us how to feel beyond skin; those who made our souls louder than our silence.

Each envelope bears my truth, inked in midnights and tea-stained longing, words trembling like my hands when I first wrote his name.

Do you remember? Or has the moon stolen that from us too?

And yet, I forgive her — for even she weeps in phases.

If you are reading this, know that I still speak to the stars in your absence, longing for a reconciliation that’ll never come, that I have become fluent in solitude, and that I have loved you in every language I’ve never been brave enough to learn.

So here it is again — another letter the moon will never read, and you, my beloved, may never receive.

I always thought grief would be black and white, monotonous for the most part. Then I thought it would be grey, like the clouds, right before it rained, holding onto as much as you can till you fall apart. But the past year has taught me that grief has colors, colors no one stops to notice or understand, colors I never thought I’d see again...

Sometimes grief would be blue, like the sky that goes on without an end, it was quiet and calm, maybe a little long yet soothing despite the sorrow deep within. Grief was green, like the trees, grass, and weeds that grew on the side of your grave, grief was growth and life despite the life lost. Grief was red, like the million flowers we arranged atop your grave in hopes you could smell them the way we could, red like the anger that kept seething despite all the rational thoughts and beliefs, a little faulty and unpredictable. Then, grief was yellow, it was funny with a little drop of sunshine where you could only think to find darkness, it was proof you could smile despite adversities. Grief is anything but the gloomy, grey picture we often paint in our heads.

I still vividly remember the day I received the call at work. I had only imagined what pain and sorrow would feel like until that moment, and despite knowing the worst has happened, all I felt was complete numbness. I could have sworn I held my breath on the ride home, wishing the car to speed past traffic lights, but also praying not to reach, not to ever find out what was awaiting me at the end of the journey. I was not prepared for this goodbye despite knowing and feeling its lingering presence for months. I was not ready to let you go… 

I had so much to say and yet silence engulfed me whole for months. I could never quite put my thoughts into words the way I wanted to, I could not speak to a wall thinking your presence filled the room or think of you as an angel living in the heavens above, looking down on me. I could not simply pretend you still were here, yet I could not completely fathom your absence long enough to understand that you were gone forever.

Maybe I was a little mad, but more than anger, it was sadness in a way I had never felt before. It was in knowing nothing would ever come close to having spent decades with you ever again. It was in knowing I could never again hold your hand as we walked through the park, never again drink the coffees that you make or share your favorite strawberry ice creams with you, it was in knowing I could never again hear your voice calling me out as I walked past your room, never again having your presence in celebrations and festivities that you dearly looked forward to. It was in knowing you’d never again sing along to the songs that played on the radio, never again waking up in the wee hours to catch World Cup matches, listening to your commentary and supporting Brazil because that was your favorite team. It was in knowing you’d never be the one who takes up the spot right next to me in family portraits and birthday photographs, it was in knowing I have kissed you goodbye for the last time and put you six feet deep where I could not quite reach you the way I wanted to. My sorrow was tied to never having you again, and knowing that there is still much I needed you for in life. It is tied to the absence and void that I now have to live and make peace with because there isn’t much else to do…

I expected myself to feel lost, to go through tons of emotions, behave irrationally, throw tantrums, and spend most of my days and nights in complete solitude. Life was a far cry from what I’d imagined, I spent most of my days after your loss swamped with work and I was surprisingly good at it. And when I couldn’t breathe, I found myself locked in a toilet or curled up on the bed, holding myself together on the brink of losing it, praying to keep it together for just a bit longer. This was a huge loss for the entire family, and with the emotional rollercoaster we all rode those months, I found it necessary to keep all my pain and sorrow hidden. I made the most jokes, recalled your time with us animatedly and did what I could to make sure everyone was okay. Most days, I kept myself mentally and physically busy to the point when I hit the bed, there was no room for thinking, let alone overthinking. All I did for a good six months or so, was work, exhaust myself and sleep.

Life took a complete turn overnight and I was nowhere near prepared for a death I knew was coming and would completely shatter me.

Tell me, how does one prepare for the complete absence of a loved one for the rest of whatever forever we have left…

I am grateful for photographs and videos of you; they bring you back whole to me for a split second every time I catch a glimpse of them. Sometimes, with my eyes closed, I could swear I feel you right here with me. In the moments I spend most alone, most broken and find myself hurting and longing for your comforting hug and presence, I feel myself break in a way I could never explain. But in those very moments, I think you’re somewhere nearby, holding my hands, silently sitting with me, the way you always did. I know you are right here. 

You’re in every flower that blooms in my garden, in every innocent smile and laughter of every child I meet on the streets, in the black coffees I drink every morning now, and in your favorite songs that play constantly on my playlist. You’re everywhere I turn, and it is not painful anymore. It’s comforting to know the things you’ve left behind in the form of objects, routines, and habits help hold me together in knowing you’re just as much here as you were before when I feel a little abandoned in life.

It still feels like you’re asleep in an unknown, unfindable room in this house, I still wait to see if you’d come walking down the hall whenever we gather for family time like you always do, I still think you’re here whenever I turn another corner or sit on your couch waiting for you to magically appear again as though nothing went amiss, like the past year didn't happen. I wonder if I prayed long and hard enough, if you'd come right back and life would resume playing out the way it was supposed to.

Sitting here, I could tell you I did not believe I’d make it past the first 24 hours, let alone a whole year. It feels surreal, like a never-ending dream I hope to awaken from and find you laughing with me as I recall every little detail, but it all feels less probable and more an unchanged reality as time passes by. With every day that begins and ends without you, know that I carry you in my heart, know that every step I take and every single thing I do, will embody you, and it will be something I hope makes you proud.

Tell me what I missed when I see you again, tell me how much you missed me and hold me till I feel whole again, tell me all your wonderful adventures from when you were young again even though I remember every story, every word, by heart, the way I do you.

I will always hold you in my heart for whatever life and eternity there is left to live,

with eternal love,

Rose.

In loving memory of my most beloved grandfather♥️