My mind is stuck in a winter morning from five years ago. I feel it deep in the root of where all my thoughts grow. They all stem from the grief and I know it’s not fair, but it’s my garden to grow. Sometimes I let it rot away like a compost and other times I watch what blooms. Lately I’ve been hiding away in empty spaces- trying to make a home out of nothing. Collecting all my trinkets and making a memorial of everything I miss. Nothing feels the same, but it’s not supposed to. I reach for comfort and it feels different. It’s bruised and torn and I want to fix it, but I can’t- and I’m not a doctor, but I keep a first aid kit tucked under my pillow. I try to mend it how I see fit. I know it’ll never be the same, but I can say I tried. I won’t make it perfect again, but I can try to make it better. I can fucking try. I can take every sad winter and hold it in my fist, or I can watch what grows. My mind floats towards any spec of light because it desperately needs to feel warmth. Time isn’t aging me- grief is. But I never needed to feel young anyways. I watch the moon bob in and out of my rearview mirror as I drive farther down the old farm road. My heart stops when the halo floods through my window and holds me close- just like that winter morning, give years ago.