Invisible Shroud...

...the weight of grief

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There’s a certain aspect of grief

I’m not yet able to see clearly.

Maybe I’m not “ready”,

or maybe some brave internal soldier

is steadfastly keeping it at bay.

I know it’s there though.

It’s somehow heavier than the rest of the grief,

woven more densely, so as to be almost viscous, like molasses

coating my ribs and shrouding the valley of my heart

in a cloth of the deepest, darkest, densest black.

A covering - so tightly woven and bound

that it refuses any attempts to be picked at,

pulled lose, or peeled away.

Walking through the world,

I notice its weight

added to my own.

A cloak of lead, heavy and oppressive,

invisible to the naked eye

or anyone I meet,

but nevertheless present for me.

Maybe, through my own awareness of this element of grief,

by intimately examining its texture, tone and weight,

some small party of me is also coming to terms with its presence.

A growing part of me knows

that we must reckon with this shroud eventually

maybe not to remove it completely,

but ultimately, to live the remainder of this human life,

things cannot stay the way they are.

At once, that same part is resolutely keeping this eventual reckoning at bay,

for now,

until we’re…

what?…

ready?

I wouldn’t wish that kind of readiness on anyone.

xx