A door, a window, the whole house and its gardens; everytime grief approached
I would move around the corner.
If it went up the stairs I'd come down them.
We'd pass but never speak.
Everytime grief appeared I would leave it but it would never leave me.
Behind a wall, over a doorway, through a window, across the path; I knew it was here occupying spaces.
Not a guest to be shown in and out but rather a housemate to sit with.
And I did not want to sit with it, to hear what it was it had to say so I ignored it.
It would perch down next to me and I'd stand up and walk away.
How I waited and I waited for it to take it's exit and be gone from this house, this land I know but it would never leave.
Now I am starting to realise maybe this grief is meant to be here with me.
Maybe we are meant to be in the same room, sat at the same table.
Maybe it's suppose to speak and I am suppose to listen to what it has to say.
Maybe the purpose is to meet and not avoid its conversation.
Maybe it needs my time, my compassion and patience.
Maybe if I heard it then I'd finally hear myself for the first time since you've been gone.
By JBO
