Grief is a Museum
Within grief, we feel some of what it means to be human. We honor connection, traditions and love. To live is to love is to grieve.
Secluded in the dense Northern California forest, stands a home shaped by the trees that tower it; redwood, pine and cedar. Within these walls, intentionally crafted by weathered hands, this museum cradles pieces untouched by time. Cobwebs lace frames taunting memories just out of reach. Exhibits of a familiar life not quite mine; a worn cowboy hat hung over an oak bed post, an acrylic painting of chanterelles, a grand piano painted with dust, and a music sheet flipped to Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata. And the hummingbirds! Everywhere— Calliope and Violetear, Broad-billed and Anna’s; carved delicately upon wood, shaped by finely blown glass and drawn by hands I will never hold. On the wall, hangs a familiar smirk trapped behind a graveyard of glass. Under morning sun, I pick plums from a tree that has fed mouths long before mine. Biting into its fruit, juice drips down my chin and monarchs dance overhead. Surrounding this home that is also a museum, joy grows beside grief and they both taste sweet