“I am still living,” I added softly. “I hope that would make you proud.”
As we walked away, I understood something I had not before.
Love does not replace what we lose.
It changes. It grows. It finds new forms.
Grief had carved something deep inside me. But it had also made space.
And in that space, life, unexpected and fragile, had begun again.
At 71, I have learned this.
The heart can break more than once.
It can love more than once.
And if you let it, it will keep beating, long after you think it cannot go on.
