December 13th 2013

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.


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