A Little About Loss

Grass a breath wide and as expansive as the ocean is rolling on the ground. 

Now, I’m on the earth fighting the current. The wind hits me like a sigh, an accusation reminding me to inhale and suddenly, I’m gulping. I was thirsty before I fell, and now I’m on my knees. Every sip I had before was salty and every tear I cried after was a Lot.

The past does not conform to time. Yesterday is as old as the Bible. Four years ago, was it that long? How did I feel? It was then, let me remember:

They read Psalms 119:105 at your funeral. It’s highlighted in the Bible you gave me when you baptized me.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet,” you would read with glasses at the top of your nose, just above the white mustache. “And a light on my path.” When I read it by myself, I see you look over the top on the wire frames. 

When I was 12, you took me to the races. You sang the national anthem loudly, and I saw the way other people respected you. 

You built a playhouse in your backyard for all the grandkids. We never used it much, and I regret it, but all the time we spent together building it means it still stands to this day. We stained the wood with paint from your shop. 

and now? Would you be proud of me, sitting on the grass outside of my dorm? It’s my first choice college, and I’m here in the major of my dreams.

I just miss you today, and I’m curious. Not as inquisitive as Lot’s wife, who looked over her shoulder (because the past is too far behind to see), but as full of wonder for my life as I could be.

 

 

 

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