My grief is a hollow

Sometimes inside.

Sometimes out.

A feeling that rises.

A spot on the chair, waiting for me to sit.

Other times, it darts, wild attack from around the corner.

Hell from on high. M e r c i l e s s.

Me sobbing — hideous, maudlin.

It has tender moments, too.

The gentle prodding of memories during sleep.

Soft purrs. Voices. Scents. A taste on the tongue.

It’s true what Daddy says.

The dead N E V E R leave us.

Colleen Sohn