For eleven months after my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I believed for her healing. I prayed, I declared, I prophesied. We travelled the world to places where people were healed, either supernaturally or through medical intervention. We recorded her test results, harrowing as they were, so that one day, when she was healed, we’d have proof that she was ever sick at all.
Grief hovers within, moving like a continual presence. The shape of loss, a vacuum absorbing all else. Lost dreams, lost people, Lost loves, lost hope.
Grief is a riptide. When they die, you feel as if you did too. Like the churn of an angry wave about to break on land. Suspended for a moment with the force of rage behind you, But a moment, is all you have. thrown against the sand in a winding, bruising, slam.
I take the journey to where I knew you best, The best you. Sweet memories flicker in between fractures of brokenness. Johannesburg Sterlizia’. Gorgeous, orange diving bird of paradise. Red sand and rocks. Familiar yet foreign.
Fighting the cravings, braving the turkey, Escaping memories, the past is murky. Friends hold hands, pray through fear, Remind in the pain, that God’s still here. Shivering, sleeping, waking, choking, Covered in sweat the bed is soaking.
if the world were a plateau how boring that would be, no mountains, no oceans, no natural majesty.
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