June beauty.

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Her legacy embraces me in a way which delicate brushes against the space between touch and impression. Grief. Have I grieved? There was a closure on the last day. It was hot. It was end of June beauty. She liked it this way. However, with the comfort of my nightgown, or the seemingly softness from the silk of my blouse, I cannot escape the loss pain. I am grieving. I am healing, but I am releasing. It is all I can and all I know to do. Death is not as black and white after all, but the very color of every color ever spoken into existence. These colors paint the very image of every life ever lived. And it is her life, a portrait that remains in a focused stillness, painted for the end of June beauty.