I wish that my grief didn’t look like anger.
A final mess:
Taking care of a woman who was supposed to have taken care of me.
…
…
Again.
…
It isn’t becoming to be so hateful.
Sit with your feelings without judging them,
I remind myself.
Picking apart the sticky papers, I keep getting dragged back to that eight year old little girl, back to when I was still becoming who I became.
But you aren’t that little girl anymore,
My counselor reminds me
as I navigate twisting fragments of memory that float before my eyes
like spirochetes.
I wish my grief didn’t look like anger, because she’s my companion whether I like it–reject her, welcome her, plan a party for her–or not.
Sarah Snow 