Grief had been a stranger,
Not showing her face for ages,
But decided to drop in
On this anniversary of my loss.
I didn’t want to be rude-
My mother always taught me to be a kind Southern lady-
But I was not in the mood for company on this saddest of days.
Still, I remembered my manners
And invited Grief in for a visit.
I’m afraid my reception was chilly at first, but Grief didn’t seem to mind.
She settled in, putting her arm around me, in the guise of an old friend.
Tell me stories, she said,
Her voice the sound of distant rain,
Gentle and soft.
And so I began, tearfully,
As Grief nodded and urged me on.
Story after story I shared,
Stories of my mother’s youth,
Stories of her courage,
As Grief listened in rapt attention,
Her hand under her chin.
Suddenly I realized that we were not alone, Grief and I.
My mother sat with us, listening to my stories,
Smiling and laughing,
Her blue eyes twinkling.
I knew then that Grief was an old friend,
And her visits were nothing to dread.
For when Grief would come calling, she would always bring my mother close to me again.