my brother found me walking in a meadow.
the sky was big, clouds climbing all the way to the very top where God sits and has his tea, deciding on all the things people pray for—deciding who gets a miracle and who does not.
i never knew that my brother liked meadows, never knew that he liked to walk quietly, the morning light liquid on his back.
i only know that he used to eat life, loved living—that we didn’t get what we asked for.
as we walked, i showed him where the night-soft body of an animal travelled through the long grass in the dark. moving from one place to another, unseen. hidden.
he nodded, grinned at me, then winked.
where the blackberry bushes climb over each other, rambling berry-pinked and bower-shaped, he crawled into the middle and left.
perhaps to climb the clouds back to heaven, to tell of the softness of a summer’s day—the beauty of it.
the dead do whatever they want. none of our rules matter. rules are made for the living.
i wonder how often he walks beside me, dimple-cheeked, smiling at my grief, holding my loss in his hands, stroking it softly—the night-soft body of an animal, moving from one place to another. hidden. unseen.
— there are things we do not know
© Liezel Graham 2020.
Photo my own.
The Saltings, Old Kilpatrick.