Grief is a well that never dries up. Grief is a river. Grief is a cloud. Grief is a stormy afternoon by the sea. Grief is a night sky with no stars.

Grief is an endless summer night with air too heavy to sleep or breathe. The window is open but no air will come through.

It’s been a year and I’m still waiting for the moment my heart will sing whenever I think of you. I am still waiting for the quiet calm peace. I am waiting for the moment the words no longer feel trite. I am forgetful and angry and I can’t talk about you or write about you, so I am trying something new. Forgive me.

Pour grief into anything and it will hold its shape (empty bed/empty chair/footprints in the sand/ dried coffee on a cup)

Hold grief up to your ear: voices will seem so far even the sea couldn’t carry them back to you.

Sit next to grief. It is the unwanted passenger sitting right next to you on your morning commute. The train is empty and you are openly weeping.

The last year you were here you asked me to write you a letter. I am sorry I never did. I am sorry the guilt only came rushing once you were dead, eyes closed and unreading.

Pour grief into anything and it will hold its shape. All memories become heavy with meaning. I want it all to have mattered.

I love you, you are here. Soft cotton cloth, cloves, orange blossom water.

Pour anything into grief and it will hold its shape: curtains dancing/ leaf falling/ cold air on your face/ spider in the bathroom/ dishes in the sink/ I love you/ i love you/ i love you.

Grief replaces time. You stand in it and wait.

There it is: a year after you die, I stand on a street corner and watch a woman fall to her knees and scream. For a moment I am frozen: I look at myself, and the phone is ringing with the news of your death.

And there it is: of all the signs, couldn’t you have chosen a better one? A dove, a flower, a raindrop. A sunray in the middle of a storm. Even a flower out of pavement.

Every morning I cross the bridge turning east and the sun stands like a lemon and I could bite into it. I could eat it whole.

Pour grief into anything and it will hold its shape (weeping willow/windowlight/yellow scarf).


Every morning I walk to the bridge and I walk right into the sun. I walk onto the bridge and I bite into the lemon yellow sun and think of how much you loved my coffee. I am looking for signs. I love you.

I wish the phone would ring. I need to talk to you. I think you would like to know: the jasmines are in bloom.

soft scrambled words