Nothing happens only when it happens
It’s strange how something as final as your deathShould be bookended by a series of beginnings:The first Sunday afterThe first meal withoutThe first solo visit to our shared hillside spotThe first time I messaged you with no replyThe first yearAnd further strange that this lossIs not only joined to everyone else’s— Simultaneously wounding and comforting— But also to every grief I’ve feltThat pr...