The year of grief ripples on. Winter extends itself to the doorstep of spring, keeping me tucked inside.
The spikes of sorrow have softened, yet unlooked-for signs and reminders throw themselves down in my path, returning my eyes to damp.
Another relation, newly diagnosed, and a friend who lost his long battle not 48 hours ago hold the return to joy firmly at bay.
That is perhaps the cruelest subtlety of grief~ the doubt and illusion it imparts that joy will never be found and felt again, that air and color will forever remain subdued.
The birds of spring are returning, but not yet for me. The healing crows are still standing guard.