There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter,
and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands
and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~~
John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994
Thirteen years on and it still feels raw, an ache that builds , a lump in the throat that doesn’t subside.
A Smile and a nod, when asked how you are because you can’t trust yourself to speak without crying.
Every year, a broken promise that it will get better.