When you died, I lost my air. Hit with a giant swell of grief

which still flows, streaming into streets filled with tears

the rains that followed. I stood at the edge of the water

diving in and out again and again, seeking relief.

The sound of your voice is fleeting. Time is the thief

that will never return you to me, not in this world.

You always said I have to carry on and I do it well 

That’s one more thing I learned, to bear the weight

of grief. Even with the funeral and allied ceremonies

after all these years I live in constant disbelief

that you are not here, not listening to my lies,

my truths, my searches for light, for the iterant darkness

in my soul. I focus my energies on you today, your day;

always, when I am clear-eyed I know I was born to serve

maybe even conceding that there is a God somewhere, 

at least you believed and that itself gives some relief. 

Today I will not let streams of sorrow flood my day, though

you will be largely on my mind. In a temple, in a life 

that you once loved, your footsteps echoing in my head,

I know there’s no use listening for it, seeking relief.

Now I know the ways my depression hits, the soft sounds

of grief. The flitting of a leaf in the breeze as I walk

I have my tasks: hug the dogs, live in the moments: 

there’s no use running to the oceans’ edge seeking relief.