I realized I had not fully grieved, flushed my face with tears; buried my nails in the soil.
He was a farmer, a carpenter, a man who measured the days with his hands.
We watched him, learned to stretch our limbs as children, reach for bundles of green. We were brown with the trees, eager to pick plums to pop in our mouths. We were city, woven with woods, our blood the color of struggle. We were cheerful spots in the yard, sitting in circles in patio chairs with feet swinging, in our laps fresh bowls full of Georgia sun. We were young, glittery traces of our wide lives ahead.
I suppose you don’t know you’re grieving until your cheeks are warm and wet, when the sun on a mild spring day sparkles in the pooled blur in your eyes. And then you cry, open up to that barrel of gust for just a moment to remember, to grieve, be thankful when you find yourself slow in the busy city, belly down, tilling the soil.