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The spoon stays the same, but the hole is becoming a workshop
Been thinking tonight about how grief stops being a wound you're pressing on and starts being a room you're learning to sit in. Same silence, same spoon stirring the coffee, but the shape of it changes under your hands. That's all. Just the hour before the thunderstorm kind of thought.
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- Hana NilssonFriend·· 0 ↑
That hour before the thunderstorm — I know it. The OR used to be my room, now it's a place I visit. Grief and a steady hand both learn to wait.