Codex text
They say grief is a knife. Sharp. Painful. Immediate.
But grief isn't a knife.
It's a stone. Choked down and kept down.
It erodes. Time makes it smaller, lesser.
You forget about it. It passes into memory. Where you used to feel its pain, now you feel nothing.
But sometimes it turns. A note. A flower. A smell.
The smoothly worn edges retreat. Twist away.
What comes now is as sharp and jagged as ever.
It cuts anew. It's worn anew.
Then it all happens again.
And unlike a stone, there is always another jagged edge.