Dent

My Mother had a miscarriage when I was 13.

Each step within the forest crackled.

The burbling of a creek nearby,

reminded me this environment was alive

as was I.

I felt the sensation of wind

blow against my face

and howl around me.

It felt rejuvinating. 

Each crack emitting from the ground,

each dead leaf crushing against my shoes,

grounded me in the moment.

You could even hear the whispering of animals,

as if they were secretly having conversations in their own native language.

talking about the strange human they see stravaging.

The landscape was beautiful.

A masterfully painted reality,

meticulously designed by autumn.

I never knew death and dying could be as beautiful as this forest was.

Yet, there it was, in all of its glory.

shedding its skin, preparing for winter.

This environment helped me cope with the loss of you.

And even though I couldn't hold your hand,

or feel your touch,

I felt you leave. I still feel it now.

They say, if you bend a sapling

it'll grow with a dent 

as if the tree itself is constantly bracing for impact.

Your death is my dent.