River Sing Me Home

by Eleanor Shearer

there was something about the passing of a parent. A cosmic weight that shifted onto the generation below. A child could leave the world without a whisper, but a parent’s death made itself known.

they could dwell in the ache, live in the old wound, count their scars. The ache would never fade, but they could make their peace with it.

love did not wait. Love was there in the beginning—even before the beginning. Love needed no words, no introduction. Existence was enough.