The Grief Stick
I got hit today. Usually I would say, "smacked upside the head" is the colloquialism that comes to mind, though I don't know that the imagery for it fits. Sucker punched in the heart may be more fitting though it certainly wasn't as physical of a sensation as that would imply. Perhaps I should think of it more as a tripping. That I relate to infinitely more. I tripped over my Grief Stick. Do you know that it is a walking staff? It's something I carry with me, proverbially of course. I can imagine what it would look like though, in my mind's eye. It's a weathered piece, washed over by waves, something salvaged on an old adventure, long forgotten, when I was younger and all I could see was its beauty and not the potential usefulness. And it has become useful in this life, been notched and grooved over a few decades of use now, many moves and countless years of intermittent strolls when I've leaned on it and worn it in places from being stored tim