#11b. Old-fashioned Water Pumps: Metaphor alert!

by storytellerisabel

Those first few weeks–after the murder—if I were that pump, I would have been dry. Bone dry. No fresh, deep well water was coming from me. Same with Clyde, Sam, Mimi, and Pop I’d say, too.

We were Just. Plain. Sad.

Here’s a tiny surprise, though. We weren’t Just. Plain. Sad. Every. Single. Minute. It’s almost like we needed a break from Sad in order to keep going.

I read somewhere that you can eat a certain amount of dirt as long as you don’t eat too much all at once. Maybe it’s the same with grieving.


Isabelcurlyheadfrombackonchair-sketch by my friend Ryan