“These bloom in April every year” he said. “Sometimes at the start, sometimes at the end, you’ll never really know. But it will bloom in April” and he left us to choose.
It will bloom in April.
The month of our boy.
I’ve let go of ever slipping into her shoes again, I could never fit, and maybe I don’t want to. They hard edges of me muscled forward by loss have also made way for my soft insides.
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Because of you, I have no comfort zone.
Open heart open wounds open arms. I have harbored life and death, and I have begged for both.
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