October Embraces Me With Grief

Why does the cold-blooded moon press against my heart ? Grief, a blot, a strange silence that still makes noise on this October afternoon.

I scrolled through the screen of my phone, somatic reels dissolving into me. My right ear rested on the pillow;

I could almost hear the heavens calling. White, magical, a period of underwater callous cries beating on my chest. I miss my granny, 'Ammachi'.

My eyes fogged, I scrunched my irritated corneas. She left too early — like spring leaving before its bloom. Now winters and nights feel longer,

stretching like the elastic stitched into my pajamas at the waist. I have read the 'Elegies' of Doughlas Dunn and Lewis's 'A Grief Observed', none of them wrote wrongly of grief. They were true. All her epitomes, her infinite names, bloom inside the flower I am becoming, and so I miss her more.

This grief is extraordinary, committed to sit on the chair of my heart. Last summer faded away,

but grief lingers in the lounge:

resting more, roaring less — and yet, somehow, louder. She taught me the midnight prayer, where walls fell, 'surrenders' worked,

and tears dried by the time they reached the circumference of my chin.

Time passed before she could teach me the prayer of grief, so I swallowed it, and when I gulped it down hard, it buried itself in the debris of my heart. Yet often, it resurrects.

Grief is a semicolon,

where heartache loses its meaning to the pungent air of the soul, only to create a meaning of its own, once in a blue moon, leaving it for an ellipsis encounter...