Out of the Dark

The dark of grief blossoms in grey pedals shaded in crimson. The seasons do not change, and it feels like terminal winter, as the ice forms around your heart, constricting and squeezing until it hurts to breathe.

The pedals of despair peel and chip, like an old china cup that you once treasured but has now lost its polish. You sweep up the debris and trudge carefully along the narrow path up a mountain, over a precipice. The bridge, wooden planks rotting and rope twine untwining, is frightening, but you hang on to a friend or faith or whatever comes your way, and tip toe across, longing for the light you see glimmering on the other side like a halo. You want to laugh again, to dance again, to wake in the morning without howling out your anger and despair.

Time passes without your permission, just like the child you no longer hold. You begged god to take you instead, but you are not in charge, and a voice whispers, the child did not belong to you. You are not god, you know that, but if you were, there would have been a different ending.

You make it across the rickety bridge, and on the other side, the gray shadows bloom into a double rainbow, which you can smell, taste, and touch. The pot of gold is acceptance, and the desire to keep on living even though he is dead. The pot of gold is your family and friends who stepped up to the plate when you couldn’t crawl out of bed.