The cost of peace

Grief is funny
in the way the ocean is funny—
how it leaves the shore quiet
only to come rushing back
without warning.

One moment
I am laughing on the porch,
sunlight on my shoulders,
sending messages about tomorrow,
about new places,
about hope.

Then a memory
slips through the air
for only a second—
and suddenly
the tide returns.

The room feels hollow.
The bandage is gone again.
And the heart remembers
everything it tried to forget.

They say freedom has a price,
that peace is never free.

I just never knew
the currency
would be pieces of my own heart.

Still, somewhere beyond the ache
the ocean keeps breathing—
in, out—
promising that even broken waves
eventually become calm water.

So tonight I will let the tide come.

I will not fight the pulling.

Because healing, I think,
is learning that the shore
survives every wave.

And maybe
so will I.

JMS