Dbee Robinson Artist - The Fat Struggling Menopausal Artist

  I am not sure how I will ever bear this weight around my heart. It's so heavy I may drown in my dark and deep sorrow. The fear another has cruelly created in me is magnifying my grief until it's all I can see, all I can feel, all that I know. A dark, crushing burden expanding day by day until I am lost in its mass of dread and horror. I am remembering a little more each day he has gone, and I am thrust back into oblivion. The more I try to push the pain away, the more I know I must let in the knowledge he has left me.  But it's too soon to let him go, I want to hold on to the thought he is still here, that he will hold me one more time, that I will wake up holding hands as we used to, that we will dance in our front room while he sings softly to me and that I will hear him laugh so outrageously at one of his favourite movies. But I know deep down these little acts of love are gone forever, as are all the things we used to do or say. I will never hear his last words to me ...

What is Love Love is not the blaze of passion, nor the sharp edge of longing. It does not demand, it does not keep score. Love is the quiet placing of your trembling heart into hands you trust more than your own. Love is gentleness when the world has turned cruel— the hush of your touch on my most frightened days, your steady voice when all I could hear was noise and harm. Love is giving all of yourself without ledger or bargain, and calling it joy. Love is never cruelty, never rage that lingers, never the cold shape of absence. It is the courage to be fragile, to let another guard what is most breakable in you. Love is knowing every quirk and shadow, and choosing them still. It is listening when weariness bows your head, the blanket drawn over my shoulders before I knew I was cold. Love is being received unchanged— and cherished beyond deserving. Love is not deceit. Not unkindness. Never small or shrinking. It is the holy risk of devotion, the way one soul...