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  • Writer's picturekatherine armstrong walters

Doors we walk through

I haven't written in a while. It's hard to write when your heart is heavy. It colors your words darkly, and I know it, but it's impossible to avoid, so I will stop trying. I knew my mom wasn't doing well, that she might not have long to be with us. I really didn't want to believe that, though. After all, she'd always been there. Part of my heart felt like the world would change so much without her, how could it even go on? And yet here we are, looking at the sunset over the place where she and my father are laid to rest. My sister and her baby girl are here, too, and my brother's little one. And the world still moves and people go to work and to school and do their thing as if nothing had happened. But for me, everything stopped the day she died. I am tied to that moment-it's a weight I carry with me and will till I die. As the days pass I'll start to move a little less slowly, and gradually I will get caught up in the movement of life again, spinning around like the rest of the world. We all will, my family and I. I know this because we've done it all before. Our shoulders get stronger as we get used to the extra weight. Our feet get used to walking under the burden we carry. And bits of light pierce through the cloud cover and give us hope to keep walking, keep hoping that one day peace will come and the pain of separation will be gone. It will come. It just takes time.

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