Constants.

Our worshiping is relegated to the bedroom on Sunday morning.
I would have it no other way.

I am new. and whole. and yet, pieces of the same girl I always was.
I still mourn the loss of what seems like huge chunks of my heart.
This love helps. I am, for the first time in my life, satiated.
This feeling is brand. new.

I’ve been reading. Reading about the effects of father loss on daughters.
Page by page revealing layers of myself and nodding in agreement.

It makes so much sense.

I’m about to go through it again soon. I feel my grandfather’s grip on life slipping. And everyone whispers and insinuates the end.
But, being the family we are, no one says it out loud.
I am still the littlest. Even though I’ve been grown for years. Many.
He has been the only father I’ve known for the last 13 years.
and.
I am not prepared.

I’m going to have to do a bit more searching. Because this cycle is the one that doesn’t stop. The one we cannot escape.
And I’m in for so much more pain.
I just wish there had been more time between all the loss.
It is life’s constant.

I will have to retreat back into love. I need a set of arms, sturdy enough to hold me up. To give love, even in times when he does not understand.
He has not been touched by death as I have. And it’s a syrupy-sweet innocence for which I cannot fault him.

Understanding, inked arms. Never ending circles of hands and love.
I guess love is life’s other constant – and I’m learning to accept that from him.