I carry my grief as if it is a balloon tied to my wrist.
Sometimes it is full of stones, and I have to scoop it up, hugging it close where it sits heavy on my chest.
Sometimes the balloon is full of air; light. It trails along behind me so I almost forget it’s there.
Sometimes the balloon is full of water; blistering. It’s thrown at me from behind, freezing me with shock.
The water will slowly dry but the balloon is always with me; tied to my wrist.