Grief has a strange way of becoming very private. It’s not that I don’t still miss my mother—more that the expression of that sentiment has tired. Harp on any longer every time I feel unfinished if I haven’t called her, or shudder at the pang of bittersweetness with each joy she doesn’t share, and I’ll become that stuck cog in the flow of letters, irrelevant and droning in the void.
It’s not a single note exactly. The tune of her modulates from key to key. But more and more I wonder if she (ethereal)—that is, the song of her—is audible to other ears. So I hold her between mine and she reverberates, like the harmonics of a singing bowl—sometimes grating, jangling; sometimes like a pulsing bell; and sometimes peaceful, warm and crystalline.
So many times I want to shut her up, drown her out. Sometimes I do. Other times, I want…
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