Its what we always do with a thing we love. Get dependent on it. Then we’re terrified when its not around anymore. This could be an it, like an ancient magnolia tree or the house we grew up in. But usually the thing is a her or him, like the grandmother who one morning never woke up or the dear friend who got lost in the years and simply couldn’t find home. Our grief is justified in God’s eyes. It shows we’re truly in the world and not just on it, evidence we give a damn. Some days poems like this help. And some days they don’t.