Aesthetic

"I sit with my grief. I mother it. I hold its small, hot hand. I don’t say, shhh. I don’t say, it is okay. I wait until it is done having feelings. Then we stand and we go wash the dishes. We crack open bedroom doors, step over the creaks, and kiss the children. We are sore from this grief, like we’ve returned from a run, like we are training for a marathon. I’m with you all the way, says my grief, whispering, and then we splash our face with water and stretch, one big shadow and one small."

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

“We’re all so desperate to be understood, we forget to be understanding.”

the night is darkest, somewhere in the middle, hovering like liminal space, a hidden stream of water, suspended by nature’s infinite grace, we stop to marvel at the marvels on the horizon, displays of man’s fury and his unbound will, but nature with her impartial plans, render’s every action and movement nil, so we settle for those tucked away bodies of water, gentle streams secluded on a faraway hill, away from concrete monoliths and our taint of rust, giants of dominion, that stand strong against all but mother’s gusts, they shall tower above for all of time, until mother she decides for the bells of the end to chime.