Grief is not a storm,
not a single clash of thunder
or sharp whip of lightning.
It is the ocean’s tide,
pulling, retreating,
always coming back.
At first, it crashes—
a wave so fierce
it leaves me gasping,
salt bitter on my lips,
lungs burning from the swell.
Then it ebbs,
softens,
becomes a lullaby of whispers
as the waves lick the shore.
I think, this is it.
I can breathe now.
I can walk along the sand
without fear of drowning.
But the tide always returns.
A memory,
a scent,
the way the light breaks
just so
on an ordinary morning,
and I’m dragged under again.
Grief is patient.
It knows no seasons,
no end.
It waits
like the moon waits for the earth,
its pull inevitable,
its rhythm eternal.
And yet,
somewhere in the crash and pull,
I find fragments of beauty:
the gleam of sea glass,
the curve of a perfect shell,
left in the wake of all that has been lost.
Grief is not just the tide—
it is also the shore,
reminding me
that though I am battered,
I remain.
