Mourning is not for the weak or the fragile or the breakable or the inconsolable or the insane.
And I, my dears, am all of these things.
To be more direct, mourning has broken me wide open and parts of my body and mind and organs were sprawled out all over the place. It was not a pretty sight.
I was a Picasso painting—
A lipsticked mouth in sky. A breast floating. Auburn hair soaring. A foot dangling in space.
I was a puddle upon the tiled base.
I was a poem without blood. Bloodless poems are worthless words.
Mourning is born into the universe with its black fangs, metallic breath, and sharp claws, but it never dies.
That’s the whole fucking truth.
However, after four years of mourning my sister’s death, I’ve recognized a veil rising ever so slowly.
A small resurrection.
A glimpse of God.
A burst of perfumed peonies in air.
It’s as if I’ve emerged from under ice, my blocked eyes opening. Finally.
It’s as if two people are standing on opposite ends of a stage elevating a heavy, draped curtain for the performance to begin.
Let me start again…
I was blind—but now I see.
The mourning hasn’t disappeared.
That will not happen on earth.
What I’m trying to say is the shadows have altered into lit candles.
What I’m trying to say is the unrelenting silence has become a VOICE.
What I’m trying to say is darkness cannot keep out the light.
It has come. It has come. It has come.
And I have allowed it inside my house.
–Darling, Reader, is there a time in your life when you thought you’d never experience LIGHT again? Tell me your story. xx