The Promise of Tomorrow

by Mary Ellen Taylor

The trick with grief was to outrun it. Never stop moving because it was always trailing close behind. Stop and think too long, and it would eat you right up. So, each day I kept moving until I was exhausted.

“A woman is never so late that she can’t spruce up her appearance.”

Today, I’ve advanced from fear to anger. When I see him, it’s all I can do not to tear the room apart. My father was one of the sharpest minds I’ve known, and now he’s losing it.” “I am more comfortable with anger than fear. The anger permits moral outrage, and I can get a lot of work done when I’m juicing on fury. But fear is a different beast. It consumes and paralyzes me.” “When does bargaining arrive? I’m good at wheeling and dealing.” I shrugged. “Who can say? Grief moves at its own pace, and sometimes it loops around and revisits its previous stops.” “Terrific.” I moved toward the singed west wall and ran my fingers over the hearth’s uneven stone. I’d been married to Spencer long enough to learn the basics of stone carving, and I marveled at the craftsmanship. Whoever carved these stones knew what they were doing. “You think this place could be saved?”

Letting go is hard . . . Traveling is magic, but magic runs out, if it’s not refreshed from time to time. I’ve never found the refresh button.