The house is dark and silent when you’re the only one in it. Your feet move slowly, leaden; the world has a weight it didn’t have before, it presses in on you. You go through the motions of eating, but food sits in your stomach like stones. You can’t sleep with the space in the bed next to you, and the dark lies on your eyelids. In the world outside you stand shadowed and cumbersome while the chatter of others lifts and darts, like fireflies. You were warned about grief, but you didn’t expect this – this dense, tangible creature with the heavy feet.

Every morning you stand on the balcony in the cold twilight of dawn, and watch for the sun to rise. But it never does.

One day it will. You will be surprised to hear the ponderous tread ring lighter through the house. The dark, alone at night, will gradually cease to press, and will embrace you softly as it used to.  You will move out of the shadows and your words will tentatively gleam and whirl.

One day you will stand on the balcony in the cold twilight of dawn, and the sun will flood the sky with light. Your heels will lift from the stone, and you will spread your arms and rise, like the bubble of the sun, into the golden air. You are as light as nothing: you ride on the wind that blows through you. You may never stop going up.