g.r.I.e.f. is an unflinching exploration of loss, memory, and reckoning. Written in the quiet hours of remembrance, it captures the raw, conflicting emotions of loving someone who caused deep pain. Through fragmented thought and midnight reflection, the poem unfolds as both an act of mourning and a declaration of self-healing - a daughter’s struggle to find meaning, forgiveness, and peace in the shadow of her father’s death.

“Resting as if the world outside has ceased to call—
As if there’s nothing to do but breathe, to simply be.
Who are we, then, if not this?
Not the endless striving, nor the restless wave of tasks.
We have, perhaps, become something more—
A peaceful being, drifting free from the human race,
Letting go of the doings that once tethered us.”

What if we all carried our lives in a backpack,
The way weary travelers do,
Waiting in queues for hours
To reunite with loved ones,
Only to leave with a lingering sadness,
After a brief gathering that only partly fills the emptiness
Of a mother grown old,
Aged by her children becoming adults,
Meeting at gate 1F,
Where time is both a journey and a reminder.

Through lonely halls of youthful pain,
She danced her steps in hope’s refrain.
Each plié, a whispered plea,
'Let this be my sanctuary.'

November arrives every year like an old friend with a bittersweet presence—a month that carries with it a weight I can’t quite shake off. It’s the time of year when daylight dwindles and the chill in the air cuts through the warmth we’ve grown used to. As the days grow shorter, there’s a quiet sadness that settles in. The holidays seem far away, yet the pressure to prepare for them looms. It’s a month of transition, where the past year feels both distant and immediate, and we find ourselves on the edge of something new, unsure if we’re ready to embrace it or not. But even in this quiet discomfort, there is an invitation to pause and reflect, to notice what November asks of us—both in the world and in our hearts.