Grief

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I have avoided coming to see you.

You no longer comb your hair or proudly list the names of your eleven siblings the way a child sings the letters of our common language.

No back sratches, no overnights, no molasses cookies or greeting cards with "love" and "special" marked with emphasis in your careful hand.

I fear that when I see you I won't know what to say.

No, I fear you won't tire of the same sentence, the thing I have said twenty times and your brain fails to understand.

"He's two," I answer you. I know the words will find their way to my throat again soon. It's necessary. I know it is.

I hate it.

Synapses fire and neurons fray. You are confused, and still I ask you to list for me your siblings. I the unrepentant school marm, you the frightened child.

I want to know you're still there.

For now, the Summer in our conversation is my son. You smile at him and he smiles back, obliging you his sunshine.

Winter, for all its bluster, cannot take your heart away from me.

Something deeper burns within, a white hot light of spirit that only Eternity will set free.

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