Your grief is seen and felt, even at the time of the Christmas spirit and when all is merry. You are seen. You are heard. Your loved one, nor you, is forgotten.
I’m a hoarder of moments, desperate to find gold in paper,
Something that I had missed before, like an echoing smile.
I walk in my loving, sweet Danse Macabre,
My fruitless attempt to make “treasure” worthwhile.