Why does grief visit me so often?
In the quiet of silence, amid its faint whispers, an old friend returns , carrying a hamper filled with memories I never asked to revisit.
Postcards from corridors that now feel unfamiliar. Photographs with the soul of ashes.
They were once here. Yet somehow, they never truly left. They left fragments of themselves woven into me.
Whom do I complain to? Whom do I tell all my silences?
No one could ever be you.
Grief reminds me how love lingers long after a voice has faded.
It shatters the heart, bends the spine, and teaches the soul a language it never wished to know.
People speak of philosophy. They speak of faith. They speak of healing.
Perhaps they're right.
But every philosophy, every prayer, every certainty makes perfect sense
until grief comes knocking at your door.
Then suddenly, words become small, and silence becomes the only language you can bear.
No.
I'm not okay.
I just miss my grandmother.
