Grief is the price of love

Grief is the price of love

The reaper comes when we least expect; icy hands take hold of the one we love. The face narrows, bones protrude from the skin, smile dims as pain takes its command. I smell the back of her neck, sweet as a field of clover, fresh as a young love’s dawn. The white cotton drapes dance in the spring morning breeze; the scent of long-ago fresh morning air comes rushing to the forefront of my memory as I hold your withering hand. We were young when we first met; our skin was still soft and smooth. We held each other, flesh to flesh, heart to heart, soul to soul. Now our days together are falling short; the reaper has come when we least expected. His icy hands have taken hold of the one I love.