her grief was something like a blanket of nothing.
it didn't keep her warm.
but it prevented her from reaching out to anyone and kept
her insulated from the
stumbling,
misguided condolence of others.
the memories were warm.
but
painful.
the nothing was comforting in it's nothingness. it had no expectations. it bred no weight.
it was a safe void in which to exist, in which to incubate.
until she could survive
outside
of it.
a gross, tragic metamorphosis. a mother who has lost her child.
