BB Grey–musings

“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.”

bb grey

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Yesterday,
while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—
a fleeting face in the blur of days—
I slipped my hand into my pocket,
and there you were:
a smooth pebble,
forgotten beneath the jumble of my life—
keys jangling,
crumpled receipts,
that laundry slip I’d meant to redeem.
My ring finger brushed its cool curve,
and I froze.

In that touch,
you unfurled—
a rush of memory,
thirty years spilling open like a worn book:
the children’s laughter,
the white picket fence we painted in spring,
the leaving,
the grief that carved me hollow.
And me,
alone now,
standing here with this stranger,
my hand trembling in the dark of my pocket.

Instinct begged me to cradle you,
to curl my fingers around that small, smooth stone—
one of many I carry,
tucked away in the daily weight of living,
unseen, unthought—
to lift you into my palm,
if only for a breath.
But I know better now.
I drew my hand free,
empty,
though the ache lingered—
a bruise pressed awake.

That’s the thought of you:
a wound I bury each morning,
yet it stirs,
alive,
and some part of me—
foolish, tender—
yearns to coax it back to life.
Because that life,
with you,
was the only one I knew.
But like death,
you are a shadow stitched to me,
a memory walking beside me,
step for step,
woven into life,
into hope,
into love.

I cannot outrun you,
cannot drown you in whiskey,
smother you with words,
or buy your silence with fleeting distractions.
You are the rhythm in my stride,
not the path itself—
and so I walk,
and I talk,
and I live the talk,
a little broken,
a little stronger,
hoping,
quietly,
to feel you there again.

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This poem was born from the haunting words of Rabbit Hole, where grief is described as a brick in your pocket—bearable yet ever-present. The line, ‘At some point it becomes bearable… Oh right. That,’ sparked the stone, the death, and the divorce woven into these verses.”

“At some point it becomes bearable.
It turns into something you can crawl out from under,
and carry around—like a brick in your pocket.
And you forget it every once in a while,
but then you reach in for whatever reason
and there it is:
`Oh right. That.’” (Rabbit Hole)