I held it reluctantly inside. This unforgiven grief. A change of life's direction, a grievance towards another, building over time, over time, over time. . . . . I held it rather carefully, this unforgiven grief. An opportunity lost, a slow crushing of what I had bring. A distinct lack of welcome for how, for what, for the why, of all I brought to the table in a particular time, and a particular place, with a particular people. I was angry . . . deeply angry . . . . |
So let the flood gates be opened, the spillway drop down, and the water flow. I do not need to dam up the unforgiven grief I hold. I can let it go. . . . . and I will let it go . . . .