Hold onto me here, exactly where I am at this very moment. Hold on to me, tightly, unafraid of the pain I hold, welcoming of my grief and my ache.
Hold me here, as I kneel at this grave, staring at a headstone I wish never existed. Staring at a space, covered in dirt and sprinkled with my tears. I visit this place because it holds pieces of her, though this visit is complicated and harsh. This isn’t the way I want to spend time with her.
Hold me here, on this cold bathroom floor. The place that’s become familiar. The place where I seek refuge and hiding. The place that should be completely flooded with my tears by now, yet somehow isn’t. The place that’s heard my loudest screams and my most paralyzing cries.
Hold me here, on this church pew. A place I abandoned for so long it now feels strange and foreign. A place that also feels like hope and love. A place that is complicated. A place full of the faith she lived each and every day. A place I’m trying to welcome again.
Hold me here, in this car. A place that carries my pain and grief to diverse places. A place that often holds my prayers, my cries, my questions, and my lack of understanding. A place that listens to my heart when the grocery store trip becomes emotional or the lady at the bank reminds me of my mother. A place that witnesses the most unplanned and instantaneous grief that comes.
Hold me here, on this bed. A place that should hold rest but instead has held restlessness. A place that creates silence and the consequential anxiety and fear. A place that used to feel safe but now is full of nightmares and unwanted darkness.
Hold me, here or wherever I find myself. Stay with me. Please stay with me. I’d like to tell you I won’t always need this support and comfort, but there is a part of me that isn’t sure if that’s true.
So, for now, and maybe forever, hold me.
