I sit with my grief like an old friend. 

She is a constant. A reliable character in my story.

Although sometimes I hide under my blanket when she visits, she is patient.

She waits for me to come out from hiding, to pull myself together, to take a deep breath to prepare.

Then she steps forward and takes my hand as we walk down memory lane. 

She is quiet but persistent.

She waits with me when I can no longer take any more steps. She tenderly pushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear and doesn’t dare wipe away my tears.

When it is time for me to go home, she follows me to bed—Her hand still in mine. 

Sometimes I wake up and she is still there, my ever-faithful companion.

And other times she is gone. 

That is when I can exhale, though with a strange pang of loss. 

But I know she is always at the back of my heart, waiting for when I need her again.