After the Rain
The year 2015 was one that I would gladly take back. And I would not ask for a refund. It was a year aged in grief and sadness and longing for what will never again be. It was the year I lived in a tiny box with a large red ball of grief. Everywhere I turned, I bumped into that ball; I was constantly brushing up against its sharp-edged, salty, tear-stained hide. You can still see the marks it left. But . . . it’s 2019 now, and with time, the room has grown. The room is much larger now. The ball of grief is still here, and I still run into it, just not all the time.