Mrs. Teabody Meets Grief
Kristy L. Richards, PhD, MD, Incomparable human being The Changing Path I always walk this path on days When I just want routine, Predictability, The sense of safety that comes with the familiar, the known An unquestionable firmness underfoot. My walk begins in comfort: A flat stretch into a long, gentle mound A curve through woods with no fright in them A less gentle but forgiving decline then Civilized on the right by fenced back yards and purposeful dogs On the left a verdant bank, perfect for sliding And there, straight ahead, as steadfast as ever The sweep and bump and height of blue mountains Against an even bluer sky. Caught up in my history With this familiar and beloved horizon, I put one foot in front of another Breathe the crisp air Hear birds peep and distant motors racing. I move on. Today, this last day in March I wake to words I never wanted To hear or read in my lifetime. Crisp. Black. Heavy. " . . . at 11:40 last night . . ." Time becomes irrelevant