Yesterday, I put on your sorrows and my winter coat and drove them out to the frozen lake. I walked along the edge, rounded the bend and cut through knee high snow to a forest of sand coloured reeds.
Winter is a good place for grief: bitter, brittle, odourless, hard. So I knelt and took it out from under my coat where it pulsed warm against my heart, and placed it on the snow beside me.
Only silence, really, and the wind freezing my salted cheeks under that bright noon sun.
I would like, like a mule, to carry your grief there daily and leave that hot sadness to cool and break in the shattering cold, instead of only watching the path it burns in its passing.
But there is no cure for the losing and you feel that already.
I have only silences and sorry in the face of your sorrow.
And a frozen lake, and a winter's drive.
The putting on
The carrying
The lifting up
And the kneeling in the white.
