March is heavy. It settles into my chest like a weight. The grey skies echo the sadness that fills me. Cold wind blows sharp from the north, stinging my skin, and leaving an excuse for the tears that burn my eyes.
March is not a lion. It is a wraith that stirs whirlwinds of memory and pain. It wages war on my carefully put together facade, laying waste to everything I’ve built, and taking back all the ground I’ve won in the last year.
March is lies. With flower beds and greening trees, then blasts of cold fury that steal your breath. It is a promise of new, but holds so much old. The days slide by like a countdown.
1. 2. 3. 4… 19. 20. 21. 22.
There is no wire to cut to stop the bomb. Year after year. You know it is coming. The explosion is inevitable. All you can do is wait.
Twelve years. The pain feels like it has been one day.
This post was written for Just Write as a way to release some of the pain from grief that always finds its way back to my side during March.