We Are Our Stories

There comes a moment in each day, when I pause to think of you. Sometimes, it might be when I walk, as I recall a past conversation. The gentleness of your smile, the wrinkled on your hands as they once enclosed my minute fingers. Then, the blunt weight of your passing bludgeons me. I stand still. 

Sometimes, I would stare blankly at the red houses lining the street. Their facades a delicate shade of pink. Or the gingko swaying softly to itself in spring. All of these things bring you back to me, and remind me of my loss even more. 

They bring you flowers, they bring you fruit. But between ourselves, we know that there is nothing greater beneath that inscribed stone than the ruins of a mortal shell. Daily, I offer you corn, walnuts, and other sweets. You'd always liked those better anyway. And daily, I know you will smile back at me, though I am beyond your reach, and you mine. 

And I know, though you do not read my tongue, these sentiments and feelings will be universal, and the pictures I describe of my memories, speak endlessly to you. 

I do not wish you rest, though it may be filial to do so. I wish you gentle happiness, something you will perhaps appreciate a little more. It is at times like these, that I wished I believed in that eternal garden. But if anything, your existence gives me the faith I need. Surely, the gentle hand will pass over your eyes, and take you to a better place of no suffering. You are not lost. Of that, I am sure. 

Just as the giant oak falls in the wood, so your place is emptied in my life. But still, after the storm, there will stream in sunlight through the canopy, and things will grow. I will grow.