I am scared of this grief. I feel like I am dying of grief. I miss my mother and father so much.
There was a family of deer in the yard at dusk. I've watched the doe and her babies for a couple of years now. The babies are growing strong. They briefly stopped and stared at me and then rushed into the woods. I hope I see them again. I also hope they stay away from the traffic.
I found bird's eggs nestled in the watering can on the porch, insulated by a nest of brown twigs. It's beautiful to be reminded of a mother's love in these small ways.
I tell myself every day: turn toward life. It is a choice, and it must be made over and over again. Even in the worst depression and pain, turn toward life.
Adult Grief by Louise Glück
Because you were foolish enough to love one place,
now you are homeless, an orphan
in a succession of shelters.
You did not prepare yourself sufficiently.
Before your eyes, two people were becoming old;
I could have told you two deaths were coming.
There has never been a parent
kept alive by a child's love.
Now, of course, it's too late—
you were trapped in the romance of fidelity.
You kept going back, clinging
to two people you hardly recognized
after what they'd endured.
If once you could have saved yourself,
now that time's past: you were obstinate, pathetically
blind to change. Now you have nothing:
for you, home is a cemetery.
I've seen you press your face against the granite markers—
you are the lichen, trying to grow there.
But you will not grow,
you will not let yourself
obliterate anything.