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.
- Calista Buchen