Washing away the grief
I can feel the December chill in the air as your gentle hand, shakes me awake. It’s still dark. My whole body feels heavy as I face another day. I never quite understood until now what was meant by the term “the weight of grief”. But that’s what it is. A weight. Like a heavy cloud that floats along with me, permeating every crevice of my life and being. I’m in autopilot. Existing, more so than living right now. You hand me coffee when I get downstairs and gently lead me towards the door. We get into the car in a comfortable silence. That first sip of coffee sometimes gives me a sense that maybe today might be better. You don’t force conversation on me, allowing me to sit with my thoughts.
The sun is rising, and I feel a sense of calm descending as we near the beach. In my darkest days, this is where you brought me, and now, it has become a ritual of sorts. We park in our usual parking space, the familiarity of my surroundings like a warm security blanket. My feet sink into the soft sand as I take my first few steps onto the beach. The sound of the waves, the ebb and flow of the water, like music to my ears. This is my therapy.
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