grief follows me like a dog not mine, not chosen yet I cannot seem to escape it. it has been with me longer than most heavy, quiet, and warm the way all faithful things are, sleeping at the foot of everything I love. some mornings it follows me to the door. others, I notice its absence the way you notice silence. suddenly, and with something that is not quite relief. I try not to think about what it means. I try not to look at it too long. it raises its head when I do.