Routine : thin threads of truth tying me together. All the loose, uneasy parts of me that threaten to fall apart are sewn quietly, steadily, in each cup of morning coffee, in each word that finds its way to the paper, in every whispering rise and fall of pages turned, in each sunrise and sunset and swift chop of the knife over dinner, each sweat of garlic in the pan.
Someday these wounds will heal, though the scars may show. For this time, I stitch, one loop after another,
My name is Bethany.
I am 24 years old.
I lost my mother.
I do not feel like myself.
But I am loved.
I am known.
You are not impossible.
You have made a way for me.
Everything is not lost.
Grief is good.
Grief is necessary.
I will not try to escape my grief.
Everything is not lost.
I am a woman.
I am a wife.
I am a writer.
Everything is not lost.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
This is the steady rhythm of my life.
