I hadn’t planned to weave words about love, loss, and the tender embrace of memory this morning. Or so I thought.

Yet, as I settle at my desk, a warm coffee cup in hand, its steam mingling with the cool morning air the furnace has not yet warmed, something shifts. Outside, the once-sluggish river, liberated from the icy clutches of the Polar Vortex, now courses swiftly. It dances between lingering islands of ice, eagerly racing towards a distant, unseen sea.

In that moment, I surrender to the muse’s gentle call.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Grief, I’ve found, mirrors the river’s journey. At times, it surges with relentless force, seeking an outlet for its profound depth of feeling. Then, unexpectedly, it halts – frozen in a moment where memories cling tightly to the sharp edges of loss.

Yet, it’s often the simplest of triggers – a familiar melody, a fleeting scent, the echo of a smile – that loosens its grasp.

Released, grief moves once more, flowing with renewed ease, leaving in its wake not just a void, but an abiding presence of Love.

Beneath The Mountain Ash
by Louise Gallagher

The space you held
remains, not empty,
filled with echoes of memory
once alive with your soft laughter,
rippling through time
like the rhythmic tick-tock
of the cuckoo clock you loved
on the wall beside the kitchen sink 
merrily chiming away the passing hours.

I see you there,
at the kitchen sink
hands veiled in soapy water,
gazing out to where the Mountain Ash
stands, bare
shrouded in snow,
its roots frozen,
awaiting the tender thaw
of spring’s warm breath.

I see you 
still, standing silent
beneath its naked branches.

I close my eyes
and breathe the air
scented with lingering tendrils
of the perfume you wore,
it clings to the soft blue shawl
I've wrapped around my shoulders.

It was yours, in the  before time.
I hold it close 
and wrap it around my shoulders,
tightly.

I breathe. In. Out.

Silently, you fade
into memory’s warm embrace.