As space begins to emerge between the peaks and valleys of full-blown, body-curdling grief,
I listen intently, deeply in-tune with the constant hum of my every day pain.

It began as soul-shredding, knock-me-off-my-feet-shock,
before giving way to take-my-breath-away numbness;
frightening indifference to once-loved activities and interactions.
It then slowly morphed into the unrelenting weight of a cinder block,
precariously balanced on my chest,
leaving me invisibly paralyzed as I trudged through each day.

But now, five months later, my grief is manifesting in a new way.

It is more subtle, but still unmistakably present.
With every breath, it is as if I’m consuming hot, humid air.
I breathe in, and out, but am burdened by its excessive fullness, its heaviness.

The other day, amidst this humidity, I found myself longing for the frigid air of Autumn.

Perhaps I longed for Autumn’s crispness,
its promise to provide my lungs
with their first fresh, uninhibited breath since March.

Perhaps I longed for it’s permission to renew,
its signal of changing times, of new beginnings.
Of moving forward.

But, perhaps I longed for Autumn
because it is my last untouched season.

It has not yet been flooded with days of pain,
where grief lurks, ready to surface without my consent.

Autumn has not yet been forced
to make new memories void of my Sister’s laughter and love.

Autumn is still bicycle rides among bursts of colourful, crunching leaves.
It is blanket scarves, knit sweaters, and picnics in grassy fields.
It is swing sets, pumpkin patches, and dog walks.
It is warm lattes and rained-out days.

Dearest Autumn, I wish you could remain untouched; unscathed.