Grief.
It rolls through with a life of its own.
Reminds me of waves at the beach. Some barely lap the shore. Some rip on in, larger than life. Occasionally, a sneaker wave comes in sideways: tears in the middle of Oliver’s Market or a lump in my throat so large I can’t speak while on the phone with a friend.

It’s all fine. Let ‘er roll. I neither try to push grief away nor invite it in. This visitor–this grief–is love. A different flavor of love, yes. Yet only love.

© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2012
This wonderful photo was taken by Greg Good, a friend from an internet deerhound list.