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She is Better

Grief is not solid.

You cannot hold her, manipulate her, or put her in your purse and let her sink to the bottom, forgetting until you need her.

Greif is liquid.

She bleeds into the crevasses.

You thought you were a container for her, but you are sieve.

There is no wrestling into submission.

There is only easing into reluctant surrender.

I hate this part.

It conjures memories of being forced into the cold pool

so the swimming lesson could start on time.

The stinging water creeping slowly up,

bringing a painful awareness of every inch of my unprepared body.

Greif shows up;

relentless and almost always unexpected.

Folding sheets...

Putting away dishes...

In long showers meant for a different kind of cleaning.

She feels both beautiful and hateful.

She comes on the breeze.

She's not angry.

I am.

So I need her; that soothing greif.

She is better than the heat.

She is better than the stone.

She is better.

She is better.






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