Wildwood Whispers

For the first time, I thought maybe I understood some of the traditions surrounding death. I didn’t have traditions. I was adrift. Grief doesn’t pair well with inexperience and awkwardness.

Sometimes I think tears are the only thing I have left that's mine.

The problem with building a wall as a defense against the world is when you're finished you're there with yourself with nowhere to hide.

The first trip to the garden was the hardest. After that, I'd found there was comfort in it. I'd decided the tradition wasn't macabre, as I'd originally thought. It was soothing. All the Ross women resting in the roots of the black locust trees seemed fitting. The garden thrived and died and thrived again. Its cycle was a perpetual memorial.

Sharing all my secrets with her left me feeling shaken and vulnerable, but wasn't that what connection was? Lowering your defenses. Being brave. Accepting the risks along with the benefits.

You know, there's nothing more qualifying than two willing hands. Lots to learn in this life. For sure. Lots to learn. But all you need to start is willing hands and a loving heart. Don't scoff. I'm getting to know you. All piss and vinegar. Skin three feet thick. But you've got the hands and heart. You just haven't learned to trust yourself with them yet.

Sometimes I think tears are the only thing I have left that’s mine,

I’d always been a survivor, but I was discovering that survival wasn’t enough if you couldn’t help others do the same.