May God Grant You Always

May God Grant You Always My wish is to give peace, comfort, and hope to those on earth grieving the loss of a loved one.

The boat is on the water and no one is in it.A small red heart hangs from the stern on a thin line.The sun is going down...
06/11/2026

The boat is on the water and no one is in it.
A small red heart hangs from the stern on a thin line.
The sun is going down into the water
the way suns go — without asking, without explanation.
People have told me time heals.
I have watched time do what it does —
move forward, accumulate, change the light
from the particular gold it was into a different gold.
The gold is not the same gold.
That is the most honest thing I can say about time:
it changes the light, it does not close the wound,
it makes a different kind of day out of the same hours.
The boat sits in the changed light.
The bird crosses high above, a dark shape
in all that warm abundance,
flying across the face of the going-down sun
without being warmed by it any differently than I am.
The little red heart at the stern
bobs on whatever the water does beneath it.
I have prayed in this light many times —
the kind that makes everything look resolved when nothing is.
I fold my hands in the gold.
I am not healed. I am lit.
There is a difference I have learned to hold
without needing anyone to understand it.
— May God Grant You Always

It was a song I hadn't heard in three years.Four bars in and I was somewhere else entirely.The cardinal is crossing the ...
06/10/2026

It was a song I hadn't heard in three years.
Four bars in and I was somewhere else entirely.
The cardinal is crossing the layered blue mountains
in the upper right — small, red, mid-flight, heading somewhere.
I was not prepared.
That is what no one tells you about the melodies —
not that they will come,
but that they arrive faster than the bracing.
The mountains hold their blue layers quietly.
They have been holding them since before the song,
since before the grief, since before I knew
that music carries an address inside it.
An address.
Yours. Still yours.
Four bars and the door opened
onto everything — the light in a specific room,
the sound of your voice saying an ordinary thing.
I prayed in the grocery store aisle
with a basket in my hand and eyes that wouldn't cooperate,
into the four bars that found me
before I could find my footing.
The cardinal has already crossed out of the frame.
The mountains remain in their blue distances.
The song is still going somewhere in me,
past the point where I know the words.
— May God Grant You Always

The snow is covering the bench and the cardinalis standing in it, not on it, just beside it.The heart balloon floats at ...
06/10/2026

The snow is covering the bench and the cardinal
is standing in it, not on it, just beside it.
The heart balloon floats at the right edge
of the cold — red against white, tethered to nothing I can see.
It is today. It will be tomorrow.
I have understood for a while now
that the missing is not a guest who will eventually leave —
it lives here, in the same house, in the same cold.
But the gratitude also lives here.
That is the thing no one warned me about —
that grief and gratitude are not opposites,
that they stand beside the same snow-covered bench.
Both.
The cardinal does not go to the bench.
It stands at the edge of the snow
and faces the direction of the balloon
the way I face the direction of the having-had.
I have prayed with both hands —
one for the grief, one for the gratitude —
holding them the way you hold two cold things
that warm each other by being held together.
The snow keeps falling equally on everything.
The bench accumulates it on the seat.
The cardinal stays at the edge.
The balloon does not rise higher or come down.
— May God Grant You Always

The butterfly landed on the flowerthat is growing out of still water with no shore in sight.I have been thinking about w...
06/10/2026

The butterfly landed on the flower
that is growing out of still water with no shore in sight.
I have been thinking about what it means
to choose to live again inside the missing.
The flower grows from the waterline —
no bank, no soil I can see,
just the stem rising from the surface
the way certain decisions rise without visible ground.
The ripples go out from the base of the stem
in rings that keep expanding past the frame.
Something landed here. Something chose to land.
Something opened its wings and stayed on the white flower.
Chose.
I have prayed over that word for a long time.
Not the choosing that forgets —
but the kind that carries everything it knows
and opens anyway, into the warm-toned air.
The butterfly holds its amber wings wide
above the small white petals, steady in the stillness.
I do not know how the flower holds
its place in all that open water.
I hold my hands the way the petals hold the butterfly —
not gripping, not releasing,
just being the place it chose to land
on its way through the grief to wherever it's going.
— May God Grant You Always

The child is sitting on a swing in the cloudsholding a glowing heart in both hands, eyes closed.The wings are small and ...
06/10/2026

The child is sitting on a swing in the clouds
holding a glowing heart in both hands, eyes closed.
The wings are small and folded inward —
not spread for flying, just present, just there.
I miss you every day.
That is the baseline — the constant hum
beneath everything else I do,
the note that does not stop when the song changes.
But some days the hum becomes the whole sound.
The ordinary things — the bowl, the chair, the window —
suddenly have your absence in them like a frequency
I can feel in my back teeth.
Those days.
The child holds the heart gently,
the way you hold something lit from inside —
not squeezing, not clutching, just containing
the warmth with open-curved hands.
I have prayed on those days differently.
Not the measured daily prayer — the quiet habit.
But the kind that comes from the back teeth,
from the frequency that took the whole room.
The clouds hold the swing.
The child holds the light.
Some days I cannot tell the difference
between the missing and the loving anymore.
— May God Grant You Always

The white feather landed on the dark waterand the rain is still coming down around it.The ripples go out from where it l...
06/10/2026

The white feather landed on the dark water
and the rain is still coming down around it.
The ripples go out from where it landed —
concentric, unhurried, as if the landing mattered.
I am not the same person.
Everyone who knew me before knows this
without saying it — they can see the place
where the person I was has thinned and not come back.
A part left with you.
Not a metaphor — an actual leaving,
the way a feather loses a portion of itself
to the air it passes through on the way down.
By the time it lands.
The rain falls into the same dark water
the feather floats on — hundreds of small landings
around the one white floating thing
that does not sink and does not rise.
I have prayed for the person I was before.
I have asked for that version to return.
The feather holds on the surface of the rain-pocked water —
present, unchanged, not going anywhere.
Not going anywhere.
Not returning to where it fell from.
The rain keeps landing in circles around it.
I am still here, differently shaped, holding on the surface.
— May God Grant You Always

The mountains go back in layers —each one a lighter shade of the same blue-gray.I have been counting those layers lately...
06/10/2026

The mountains go back in layers —
each one a lighter shade of the same blue-gray.
I have been counting those layers lately.
Each one a day I went looking for myself and came back without.
The first layer has trees you can see individually.
The second layer loses the trees but keeps the ridge.
The third layer is mostly suggestion —
the idea of mountain more than mountain itself.
That is where I am some mornings.
The third layer. The suggestion of self.
Still shaped like a ridge against the sky,
but the detail gone, the individual trees dissolved.
I break again.
Not dramatically. Not the way you imagine breaking —
the single clean fracture.
More like the ridge losing its detail each time the fog thickens,
until you cannot say exactly where the mountain ends.
I pray into the layered gray.
I fold my hands over the part that went with you —
the clearest layer, the one closest,
the one where the trees were still individual and I could name them.
The mountains stay in their layers.
The fog does not show me a way through.
I am somewhere in the middle distance —
still there, less distinct, continuing.
— May God Grant You Always

I still say goodnight.Every night, into the same direction, into the same dark.The figure in the blue fog stands on the ...
06/10/2026

I still say goodnight.
Every night, into the same direction, into the same dark.
The figure in the blue fog stands on the path
where the bare tree reaches over without covering anything.
The tree has not changed.
It spreads its winter branches the way it always has —
not toward something, not away,
just outward, the way things grow when there is nothing stopping them.
I say the words the way you say a thing by habit —
not because habit is lesser than intention,
but because the habit is what love became
when it had nowhere left to land.
It lands anyway.
Somewhere in the blue fog of the nightly saying,
somewhere past the bare branches and the path
that continues past where I can see —
I send the words again into whatever is listening.
The figure stands with his back to me.
I do not know if he is leaving or arriving.
I do not know if the fog ahead is thinning
or if it only looks that way from where I am.
I say goodnight.
I say I love you.
The fog receives it the way it receives everything —
without confirmation, without refusal.
— May God Grant You Always

He is sitting on a bench at the water's edgewhere the bare tree stands without apology for its bareness.The water reflec...
06/10/2026

He is sitting on a bench at the water's edge
where the bare tree stands without apology for its bareness.
The water reflects everything —
bench, tree, figure, fog —
and offers no explanation for any of it.
I have come to this kind of water before.
The kind that holds the image perfectly
and tells you nothing about what the image means.
I have prayed into questions
the way you press a bruise to confirm it —
not to heal it, not to make it stop,
but to know it is still there, still real, still mine.
Forever questioning.
The water holds his reflection the way it holds the fog —
without preference, without distinction between
what is a person and what is the weather.
I find that more honest than most things I have been told.
The bare tree stands on the bank above its own reflection.
It knows only how to be what it is.
I have been trying to learn that for a long time —
how to be what grief made me without requiring it to explain itself.
The fog sits on the water without moving.
The questions I have are the same questions.
He sits with his back to me, facing the water.
The water receives everything and answers nothing.
— May God Grant You Always

The small boy is standing in the lightand the light is coming from above and from everywhere.He is small enough that it ...
06/10/2026

The small boy is standing in the light
and the light is coming from above and from everywhere.
He is small enough that it surrounds him completely —
not entering a room of light but standing inside it.
I have tried to explain to people what missing feels like
across this many moments —
the single ones, the small ones,
the ones that do not announce themselves as significant.
The Tuesday when the coffee was the wrong temperature.
The Sunday when the birds were loud at the window.
The Wednesday when nothing happened
and the nothing had your absence threaded all the way through it.
Every single one.
The boy stands in the light that came from somewhere
I am not allowed to see from where I stand.
He faces it the way children face things —
without bracing, without a prepared expression.
I have braced for every one.
I have arrived at every moment with my hands
already folded before the moment opened —
already praying before I knew what the moment held.
The light is everywhere around him.
He does not reach toward it.
He is simply in it, small and present,
the way missing is simply in everything, every single moment.
— May God Grant You Always

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