old men at graveyards move differently than the rest of us. they don't rush. don't flinch at the names carved in stone. don't pretend death is a stranger. their hands remember the weight of coffins. their knees remember the hardness of church pews. their eyes remember faces time has erased everywhere except in their hearts. they don't speak of grief as something to overcome. they know better. know how love transforms after loss - becomes soil, becomes roots, becomes something that feeds you invisibly. they plant flowers not as decoration but as conversation. with dirt. with roots. with what remains when everything else is gone
We do strange things to protect ourselves. I notice I stiffen myself around certain people, even though I know they mean well. I harden around kindness; it makes no sense. But there are parts of me that were once open in the wrong places. They still donโt know if theyโre safe.
times where itโs just you and your silhouette and the world appears greyish, you know itโll make a beautiful canvas so you smile once in a while but deep down you wish it was a dream because youโre worn out.