I’m floating above it all- watching my life unfold like a tired flower that’s done with the bloom. Every living thing has an ending. Yours was so beautiful.

A piece of me rose with you that morning and the sun reached out and gave you your halo.

If I were to talk to an Angel, I’d ask them for a cigarette. You’d laugh at the gesture and tell me stop where I’m at. I’m doing just fine. I’m carrying grief quite gently, after all.

And even though the absence in my soul is loud- the stillness in the mourning somehow fills it.

Reminds me how loving and caring and being doesn’t come without some sort of suffering- and for that, I live. -AMT