Glory of the Snow (Sandcastle 4.15)

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It’s not enough.

There is nothing in this world I could give you to fill the abyss of your suffering. It’s like trying to fill a hole to the center of the earth with a single shovelful of dirt. You’re on the precipice, toes at the edge, pebbles coming loose and falling into a black hole of forever, and you watch them dive into the void, your body unconsciously leaning forward, closer…almost. You already feel like you’re falling. Why not take one more step and disappear into the grief? Wouldn’t it be simpler to let it wholly consume you?

You pulled me down that hole the moment I heard you cry out. To see you kneeling over the still body, your shoulders shaking…that wail. I’ve never heard a manifestation of such suffering before. To hear it pulled from the throat—lungs—soul of someone I love was a knife in my heart, not a single stab wound, but a torturous sawing at the heartstrings, a sword across a violin. It clenched my throat to trap my own grief while my eyes burned, blurring your form so all that existed was the sound of your hoarse sobs. Your eclipsing pain was so powerful that it clutched me in its shadow and drew me toward the very precipice where you wavered at the edge.

I stand here now in the wake of the numbness. The heavy silence exists only because our throats are sore and swollen and our tired eyes have emptied the reservoir for now.

I can’t bring her back, and I can’t comfort you. There is no consolation but time. The bulbs in my hand are not enough, but they’re all I have to give.

“Glory of the snow.”

Those are the only words I can croak out, and I choke on them. Chionodoxa luciliae, glory-of-the-snow, unborn flowers for a freshly covered grave. Maybe you’ll discover a tiny comfort in breathing in the scent of the soil, in feeling the crisp autumn air kiss your face and sweep away the damp hair matted in the streaks cutting down your cheeks, in sifting the cool earth through your fingers. The tears—if you can summon any from that void inside you—are free to roll off the tip of your cold nose and fall. A glory-of-the-snow will accept your tear and hold it through the frozen winter until spring’s early thaw. In the shadow of the gravestone, the flowers will bloom early, breaking through the frosted crust in search of sunlight, announcing the end of sleep and a promise of new life and beginnings.

Glory of the snow.

Remembrance.

It’s not enough, but it’s all I have to give.

 

 

 

 

 

In loving memory of Shannon

 

 

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I'm an award-winning fantasy author, artist, and photographer from La Porte, Indiana. My poetry, short fiction, and memoir works have been featured in various anthologies and journals since 2005, and several of my poems are available in the Indiana Poetry Archives. The first three novels in my Chronicles of Avilésor: War of the Realms series have received awards from Literary Titan.

After some time working as a freelance writer, I was shocked by how many website articles are actually written by paid "ghost writers" but published under the byline of a different author. It was a jolt seeing my articles presented as if they were written by a high-profile CEO or an industry expert with decades of experience. I'll be honest; it felt slimy and dishonest. I had none of the credentials readers assumed the author of the article actually had. Ghost writing is a perfectly legal, astonishingly common practice, and now, AI has entered the playing field to further muddy the waters. It's hard to trust who (or what) actually wrote the content you'll read online these days.

That's not the case here at On The Cobblestone Road. I do not and never will pay a ghost writer, then slap my name on their work as if I'd written it. This website is 100% authentic. No outsourcing. No ghost writing. No AI-generated content. It's just me... as it should be.

If you would like to support my work, check out the Support The Creator page for more information. Thank you for finding my website! 🖤

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