Hey, grief said. Make the bed. Own the hour.
Follow the sun, its radiance, reminder to the day, light to open your heart
to the silence
to the blue, blue sky.
My mantra of longing is What would Jackson say or do?
A guiding whisper in the middle of the night to take care of your health, do the tests, you are worth each penny. Wasn’t I, he asks?
You were, more golden than any coin.
Flipping toys airborne, sheer exuberance, rabbit chaser, dream dancer, honey colored. What a handsome dog, people would say.
Those eyes, brown beams of love, with eyeliner underneath, catching the joy of the familiar, the sparks of play that burst through the air then settled down, like the wind laying down.
Those eyes that went dark with the promise of tomorrow or was it yesterday?
What would Jackson do?
Hold steady inside your body, hold on as you let go.
Gentle to the rush of undoing your life as it is.
No matter, be generous in your footsteps. The world is waiting, for you.
And so, grief said, let’s go for a walk, even with your tears.
Ellie Sciarra is a writer — and tap dancer — living in Boulder.
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