Skip to content

Loss

September 8, 2014

It rides along with you, like something just in your periphery, over your left shoulder, that isn’t there when you turn around to confront it. Like a sound that you barely hear, and wonder whether you really hear something, it whispers in your ear. It joins you at the table when you sit down to eat, a presence felt regardless of whether you set a place for it or not. It is a guide of sorts, along a path we would rather not tread. Grief is the seneschal of Death’s house, and the doors it opens are heavy with sorrow.

Advertisements

From → Not Bus Stories

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: