When feeling grief at it strongest, you think you’ll die. But you don’t. The mornings and nights keep coming. You find yourself distracted by that, the way life goes on. A crocus appears in the winter ground. A week later, a carpet of daffodils bloom where there was only winter-nipped grass. Tulip magnolias open on leafless trees. Camellias drop at your feet. You exhale. Your breath joins a billion others, giving life to earth, and the earth breathes back oxygen, and you live, you live, you live. You lower your shoulders, the grief somehow transformed into a scar, tough and visible, like so many you carry, like skin, like life. Flexible now, you remember to exhale, as you move into the new day.
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