Sing aloud my grief

How many things do I bury without even a song, rather, instead, moving forward, moving away, moving on, moving?

A glimmer of hope, passed.

A bubble-gum-pink camellia blossom, overflowing onto itself, taken down to the ground by the weight of its own beauty.

A tear, running down my left cheek.

A reason to turn left.

A missing sock.

A ladybug, upside down in the windowsill, the sun’s heat quickly turning it to dust.

A family heirloom, shattered.

A species of grasshopper, extinct.

A treatment, failed.

A glass of water, spilled, in a drought.

A language disappeared along with its speakers and a whole way of relating to, understanding the world.

A fallen leaf at the end of its time on the mother tree.

A fire in my belly, extinguished.

A wetland, receding.

A sob, swallowed, as I look in my rearview mirror at her standing on the curb.

A daughter, never again being an infant.

Why don’t I sing to lift up, to give voice to my sorrow?

Why don’t I sing aloud my grief at the breaking as I go?

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