It was something great. You think back to how sloppily the flowers bloomed- spines twirling in different directions- and still, people called it beautiful. Your heart aches so much that you start to believe it’s broken. Grief tastes sour and you swear it never used to be that way, until it was. You staple each trying word across your palms and raise them for some sort of answer- no one listens. You scream, “I’m not waving, I’m drowning”, and those pleads echo in the wind. But light starts to shed in places where no windows live. You call it a gracious light- something like peace. You pack away pressed flowers with crooked stems and call it your masterpiece. You tear out your favorite page of the story and frame it for safekeeping. You hold it with shaking hands and let it bloom because it was something great.You think back to it all with a less sour taste- and even though it’ll never be sweet, you still swallow the truth and let it be graceful. You dust off the book, break the spine back open like you never stored it away, and title the chapter, “onward”.