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Holding Space

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Thalia exits the 4runner and begins the copper trail to Red Rock. It’s been a year. Some believe that’s enough…. as if grief has a clock or a season. She feels the shifting weight in the small wooden box, moving it slowly from side to side.

It’s not him. He was made of laughter. His eyes danced when he spoke. His aura so large and colourful, it would never fit into a box. She wonders… where does death fit? Do you squeeze it between smiles and hollow condolences? Do you fold it, file it, take it out only for reference?

Perched on a cliff, the sunlit sandstone warms the back of her thighs. Her hands clutch the box. What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?

There is nothingness here, yet it is something to hold onto forever.

“Prosery” for dverse Poets Pub. I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Join us in writing a short piece of prose no more than 144 words excluding the title. It must include the following line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Waste Land”.

What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?

15 responses »

  1. I feel the pathos in this one, Mish! Wonderful!

    Reply
  2. This is wonderful, Mish, I can’t believe you managed to take such a bleak quotation and turn it into a message of hope and transcendence. Really well done.

    Reply
  3. Holding on to the nothingness… I can feel a sense of being numbed by the pain of loss, and maybe that is why we can cope with sorrow… there is an end to how much it can ache.

    Reply
  4. This is so poignant, and so beautifully written. I’m glad you left us with this hope.
    I think perhaps this is a story close to your heart. 💙

    Reply
  5. Mish, this part really gets to me:
    “It’s not him. He was made of laughter. His eyes danced when he spoke. His aura so large and colourful, it would never fit into a box.” 😦 I’m glad the writer is able to make peace with his passing in that spiritual place.

    Reply
  6. Glenn A. Buttkus

    Profound and touching message. Wonder word-weaving, like “where does death fit? Do you squeeze it between smiles and hollow condolences? Do you fold it, file it, take it out only for reference?”

    Reply
  7. A powerful write. These words “Some believe that’s enough…. as if grief has a clock or a season.” resonated with me. My take on this is the box contains the ashes of a loved one….making this trip into this place to release him. Within the box, ashes….but not his smile, not his being. But still, to release him to the elements….that is a step within grief.

    Reply
  8. Truly transcendent! “Holding space” is the perfect title, that space that forever branches out! 💓

    Reply
  9. Nicely done Mish! I had to go back and read it again, and then I realized what was going on. Very great story! Challenging questions!

    Reply
  10. Your prose is impactful … something to hold onto, forever.

    Reply
  11. Luv those poignant questions of paragraph 2.
    Oh this is so prpfound.

    Thanks for dropping by to read mine

    Much💜love

    Reply
  12. A very private and personal moment. Beautifully written ☺️💕

    Reply
  13. as if grief has a clock or a season.

    As if indeed, Mish… you rendered this moment with perfection and empathy.


    David

    Reply
  14. This sends me so many places!

    Reply
  15. love the unraveling. felt the emotions, Mish.

    Reply

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