The Path Well Traveled

 Darkness all around. I should be frightened but I am comforted. She draws near me now. I can hear her bare feet upon the wet, dark green leaves that litter the ground. The moon is but a sliver of silver in an inky sky, broken apart, as a mosaic, by the tree tops that tower above. The smell of earth surrounds, with a faint hint of lavender, carried on the breeze. The trees sway toward the earth as she approaches. The mighty sentinels bowing to her power, even as they dwarf her in size. Her steps are light; only the faint sound of ruffling leaves beneath her feet betray them. Great physical stature is not needed. As she comes closer, the atmosphere charges, the breeze stills, running streams become as glass. She consumes any space she occupies, even breathing becomes difficult. The only thing that moves are tears. She procures them in abundance.

She is closer still. My breath catches. I can see her black shroud, her hood hiding most of her countenance. I ponder how I am so familiar with her, as I have never beheld her face nor heard her voice. She stands before me, her black staff in her delicate left hand. It is made of some ancient branch and stands a head taller than she. It guides her. She is never lost. The frayed ends of her cloak spill upon the ground behind her; ribbons of void through the dense leaves. With her small snow white right hand, she reaches towards me. I can bear no more, and like the trees, I bow before her.

Tears flow freely. Time slips away and I only perceive darkness and her presence. She wields her power over me. Hours, perhaps days, pass as I lie prostrate upon the duff. Time slowly begins to reach its tendrils back around my consciousness. I realize she is stroking my hair as a mother does her child. I raise my eyes to look upon her face and she is gone. The trees stir and a breeze brings the aroma of lavender; a balm I am grateful for. I blink the remaining tears from my eyes and rise to my feet.

I know the path home. I have traversed it many times. I will return to this forest again, when the moon is nearly new. She will either visit me or not. I can not call out to her; she comes as she pleases. She is darkness. She is comfort. She is my companion in the forest of the recesses of my mind, and her name is Grief.