Grief is like a curling vine
It’s light and creeping, stealthy and twisty: a curling vine, unfurling it’s leaves as it runs along. Quietly, it winds itself through and around the spirit, filling in the hole that once was her. Its flowers open painfully, beautifully, as memories. There are thorns, too, when flashes of fear and guilt intermingle with those memories of melody and warmth.
My mind tries to prune, to guide, to tie it down. (But never will it try to uproot. No, it is too entangled with the soul, so deeply planted that it is part of me, and will ever be.) But really, it is a wild and pressing thing, and will not be suppressed unless it is feeling tame.
It will spread like weeds sometimes, and then settle into a guiding strength, like an oak tree. Perhaps in time, it will grow to shade and to shield and to rain down peaceful memories and suggestions, soft as leaves drifting on the breeze, as if from Heaven.
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