Originally posted in July of 2014 after the death of my second grandparent in a month’s time.

Grief.  Death.  Loss.

They do funny things.

Twisted things.

I sit here with my grief in my lap,

rocking it.

I do not want to hold it,

I want to let it go.

But if I let it go, will I have let them go too?

It feels like this,

this bit of nothing,

whole of everything,

is all I have left of them

at this moment.

My soul is calmly watching.

Listening, humming.

Her knitting needles are gently

clicking, tapping, winding,

as she knits a prayer covering

that never seems to end.

She knows this too shall pass,

That all is well, really.

But my spirit- it is wounded.

She looks like a rag left in the street,

dull, tattered, useless and unattractive

in its disrepair and overuse.

Run over and over, it lies there.

Waiting.  Hoping.

But too tired to do anything.

And my mind, well it goes places.

It remembers last breaths.

It remembers smiles and love.

It wonders what it is like

when our soul leaves here.

It twists and turns and wonders,

wonderful, gruesome, morbid things.

Beautiful, sad, poignant things.