Grief

Grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side.
But I am here, stuck in the middle, water parting
around my ankles, moving downstream over the flat rocks.
I'm not able to lift a foot,
move on. Instead, I'm going to stay here
in the shallows with my sorrow, nurture it
like a cranky baby, rock it in my arms.
I don't want to grow up, go to school, get married.
It's mine. Yes, the October sunlight wraps me
in its yellow shawl, and the air is sweet as a golden Tokay. On the other side, there are apples, grapes, walnuts,
and the rocks are warm from the sun.
But I'm going to stand here,
growing colder, until every inch
of my skin is numb. I can't cross over.
Then you really will be gone.
 - Barbara Crooker Reprinted with permission from the author, and lovingly called to my attention by my sister in law, Emily Luterman Koester.