Grief is sharp at first. This idea turns over in my head today, just as the imagery of a stone does - a sharp, angular thing that bites my hand as I worry at memories. They turn from thumb to fingers, rolling the grief-stone, which settles in the palm of the hand for a moment before biting again. It makes my palms bleed, presses painfully against my thigh in my pocket, or worse, at my chest where I clasp it in the worst moments. It bites, but I cannot let it go. It's mine. It's what's left.

After a while, though, I realise I tend to the stone less. It's worried smooth - the turning over has softened the edges. It's nice to keep it warm - I won't ever let this precious thing go - but it cuts less, pains less. I imagine it as one of the rare black rocks at the bottom of a river, the beautiful smooth stones that you might take home, believing they are charmed. You pop them on a windowsill or in the dry dirt of a pot plant and forget where they came from, but you will never throw them back. They are yours. 


![image.png](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/riverflows/2458ECBBb54pcjsYbqVBKdjfY3cMgNwP9UwpfGTFa35BhnzSzFqXpnA9vZbNCxW7iR1et.png)


I remember things differently now. They are the same memories but seen from a different angle, the same way the riverstones look different wet at the bottom of a river to dry on the shelf. The last day we spoke, where you were letting go but couldn't say it. You were so positive and told me that you were 'good', though for weeks the answer to 'how are you' was an honest response of pain. I've turned the stone of that memory over a million times and wish I had stayed a little longer but I couldn't because I couldn't bear the letting go. You said you were good because you wanted to let me know that it was okay. Or maybe you *were* good. Endone can be a lovely drug. Either way, the stone smooths and becomes more precious. 

I think of the time you grabbed your camera and came with us to the headland. None of us could believe you were able to make it to the car, but you did, and further, toward the lightning that spiked on the blue horizon, lens at the ready. You had a way of finding the joy even when your life was fizzing like the lightning, this limited, ephemeral, gasping thing. You didn't even have the words to tell Mum about it but it was all sparking in your eyes, that last grand adventure. 

I remember when you, undemonstrative, matter of fact, rational you, said that you were glad I came back when I did - huge words, big words. You loved me. 

Listening to Canned Heat's 'Pale Moon' thrice over because neither of us had heard it before. No one I have known or ever have known loved music as much as you. You had weeks to listen and I listened with you. Old stuff, new stuff. Yesterday I was in a clothing store and there was an album playing that was one of yours. Your music is everywhere. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQbqseG9RqE

This is the stone I turn over in my pocket - the grief stone, the love stone, the stone of your last days that no one else carries but me. We all have our own stones, our beautiful, weighty, lovely stones that rest in our pockets, ours alone to keep warm. 


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# `With Love,` 


![image.png](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/riverflows/23t6xT1abr5kFMeEirKwZ2QqT6MK9U4SBpKCQZAjVEojgm7uSSGL9AJSuwtBsUmMAV5jv.png)







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