One Day, Somehow (A Promise for a Grieving Friend)
One day, somehow, you will smile again.
One day, somehow, you will laugh again.
One day you will smile and laugh,
without the ache of haunted memory,
the insistent voice accusing,
You’re not supposed to be happy. Not yet. Not ever.
One day you will feel a little like your old self again—
not the same,
never exactly the same,
but still, somehow, you.
One day you will look to the future and see light,
and the kind of tomorrows you want to live in.
One day—someday—somehow, you will.
Maybe sooner than you think.
But as we wait for that day, know that
I pray for you,
I wait with you,
I hurt with you.
If you want me to, I will walk these dark days with you,
the ones without smiles and laughter and sunshine.
I’ll share the sorrow, the silence, the shadow,
as long as it takes.
We can talk or not talk,
as long as you need.
One day you will wake to a day less dim.
And when you are ready to step into the light,
I’ll share that day too.
Remind you to wear shades, if at first the light hurts your eyes.
Hold your hand—maybe even tell jokes—while you relearn how to walk in full sun.
And one day, my friend, you’ll do the same for me.
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Elizabeth works from home as a writer, editor, diaper changer, baby snuggler, laundry slayer, not-so-gourmet chef, kid chauffeur, floor mopper, dog groomer, and tantrum tamer. She is always tired, but it's mostly the good kind.