Just one step closer to closure at a time—
one more court date over,
one less long wait slower—
one more inch along the way
toward happily afters and all better now—
or maybe grief is more a door
that never closes like a lock.
No permanent click,
no absolute end,
no gavel drop of perfect justice
to put the heartache behind bars.
It comes, and it fades,
and you learn to live
with a shadowed nuance
that sits on your shoulders on certain days
more so than others,
finicky like fog.
Over time, you learn to use your headlights
and pull your way carefully down the road,
even inside the densest cloud.
You might drive twenty-five miles an hour
when you have to,
but you never stop, not now.
You have somewhere to go,
goals shining like cities on the maps of your mind,
and you know that the light
always clears up later.
You squint through the grey
and the unanswered questions,
the rage and regret,
memories that won’t settle,
and in spite of it all
your foot hugs the gas.
You keep driving forward,
your heart full of past.
Backyard Apricots 