I am realizing that people hurt in different ways. No pain looks the same. They don't laugh at the same jokes. They stop tending to the garden. Leave all the lights off. Pick at their fingernails.
I try not to focus on what their hurt looks like so much anymore, but what still remains the same; their perfume, their favorite colors and hiding places, and what it means to feel better. Getting out of bed. A good, warm lunch at the diner. Curling their hair or doing the dishes.
Regardless of what sadness looks like, wearing their body like old clothes, I watch the way they come back to themselves, every time. Granting what time they need for themselves. Undressing the loneliness. Filling the absence.
How gorgeous it is to watch someone be well.
