the trouble with grief, when it is not your own, is that it behaves much like the rubber vine i read about in an article whilst waiting for my boss to have his back adjusted by an osteopath last thursday.
there was nothing better to read in the reception area, or in the magazine itself, and so i waded through each intimate detail of the plant: its pods, flowering times, life-span of up to eighty years, the best methods of prevention and control, and i thought myself bored at the time, but now my mind returns to the weed, so crippling in its threat to the waterways and woodlands of northeastern australia, that it has been classified as a "weed of national significance."
grief has a similar hold.
grief won't let the light in, nor let anything else grow in it's immediate vicinity.
just so you know, writing this makes me feel worse.
for a while i kept waiting for the back-drop to change. for make-up to be called in to touch up the lines by my eyes from too much squinting, smiling. lines that reveal exactly where i have stayed too long.
and then i decided to be careful. then i decided not to be so careful.
and i know that you know that it is easy for me to write any and all of this, because it doesn't belong to me, even though i belong absolutely to it.
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