Tributaries and White Carpet

In medias res, I think to myself last night.  This random literary term popping into my head.  In media res- right in the middle.  Milton’s Paradise Lost begins in hell for example, after the angels have already fallen.  And that is where we left off- in medias res.

It is hard to distinguish grief from love- the two erupted so much at once and have remained inseparable for some time now.  So I often ask myself, how does one let go of grief (not that it’s simply a process of will) and hold onto love?  Where will the love go?  In happy memories?  Those are still too painful and will never, never, be happy, despite what well-wishers believe.  To the future?  At a time when I might see you again in the flesh?  Or will it just float up into the air like the hundreds of balloons little children who’ve lost a parent send “up to heaven.”

All of the arguing and late nights and counseling and hurting and healing, I see now as only tributaries.  Our conflict was carving tributaries into my being.  It made sure the love reached every island and inlet- it courses through my veins I guess.

I imagine  your death and my love for you now like the white carpet rolled out before the bride walks down the aisle, like the flower petals dropped by a pretty little girl, laid out for me to walk the rest of this way.

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