On Grief

I carry my grief as if it is a balloon tied to my wrist.

Sometimes it is full of stones, and I have to scoop it up, hugging it close where it sits heavy on my chest.

Sometimes the balloon is full of air; light. It trails along behind me so I almost forget it’s there.

Sometimes the balloon is full of water; blistering. It’s  thrown at me from behind, freezing me with shock.

Drenching.

The water will slowly dry but the balloon is always with me; tied to my wrist.

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One Comment

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  1. Please keep writing, your words are awesome

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