I don’t trust sunny days or blue skies
I much prefer the gloomy greys
Most of my heartache has happened
on the most beautiful days.
Always seemed incongruous.
Finding my child was gone before I even felt him
then having to walk down the grassy slope
filled with wildflowers
sweetly scenting the air
when all I could taste was salty tears.
Losing my father hours after sharing a celebratory meal
on the bluest summer day
then having to greet his cold countenance
in an air conditioned hospital hallway
parts of him still warm from his run on the lane.
Feeling my young heart break
from a boy who didn’t even know he had held it
just as loosely as his jangling set of keys
even though I tried fervently
to wrap around him.
Fearing my soul was irreparably torn by a man
who took me on journeys
and shared so much wisdom
but could only see as far as that night
when I needed to look beyond.
But grey skies have always comforted
tea and blankets and old movies cocooning me
a gentleman’s hands taking mine gently in the cold
storms bringing clarity
grey days feeling like home.
Grey skies are my home as well. The sorrow here is comforted by the mists…