I don't believe time heals. I don't want it to. If I heal, doesn't that mean I've accepted the world without her?

As I walk through the redwood trees, my sneakers sopping up days of rain, I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes, when grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.

grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping