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The Shape of Healing
They tell us time heals everything,
as though hours were surgeons,
as though calendars carried sutures.
But I have learned otherwise.
Time does not erase the wound;
it teaches the body a different gait.
The ache remains, but it dulls its blade,
no longer cutting, only whispering,
a scar that knows the weather
before the sky remembers.
And yet, in the hollow carved by loss,
something else begins to bloom.
Joy creeps in like sunlight
through the cracks of an old wall,
stubborn, insistent,
turning rubble into gardens.
We do not get over grief,
as though it were a fence to vault.
We grow around it,
branches bending wide
to make room for what is unmovable,
roots finding strength in the stone
that would not shift.
This is the quiet alchemy of survival:
pain becomes soil,
tears water the ground,
and out of what cannot be undone,
life, impossibly, flowers.
