Pam The Berkshire Medium

06/13/2026

I will grieve for you forever…

06/13/2026

06/13/2026

The white flowers in this image are barely there —
more suggestion than flower, more light than form.
That is how it is some mornings:
the memory arrives before the grief does,
just the shape of her first,
and then what the shape costs.
I have the quilt she made me.
Hand-stitched, white and cream and pale blue,
the squares not perfectly even —
she said: I am not a machine.
The uneven squares are the ones I find with my hands
in the dark, without looking.
That is the thing about a thing made by hand —
the imperfections are the signature.
I can find her in the quilt
the way I cannot find her anywhere else.
Pressing the uneven seams is not grieving.
It is something past grieving,
something that lives further in —
where the missing has been long enough to become familiar.
Familiar now.
The quilt is on my bed every night.
Some mornings I fold it back carefully.
Some mornings I leave it where it is
and just put my hands on it before I stand up.
— Tears of Memory

06/13/2026

Yes, they can. ❤️❤️‍🩹

06/13/2026

The butterfly is the color of dry things —
tan, brown, the color of summer after it is over.
It landed on the white flower
at the top of a thin stem
and everything else in the image
has softened into blue-gray haze —
the grasses below, the background,
the whole world made indistinct except this.
The first morning is the one I cannot revise.
I have tried — not in the wishing,
but in the remembering: trying to find
a different version of how that ceiling looked.
There isn't one.
The ceiling was the ceiling.
The light in the room was the light in the room.
And the fact arrived the same way each time I rehearsed it.
But here is the butterfly
on the white flower in the blue haze,
the color of after, the color of what remains
when the bright things have finished.
It is not pretty. It is present.
That is the difference
I have been learning to live inside —
between beautiful and here.
— Angels Are Near

06/13/2026

🥹❤️‍🩹

06/12/2026

The sun is setting on the other side of the iron gate
and I have been holding this rose long enough for it to soften.
The cardinal sits on the scrolled iron finial —
still, precise, watching the same horizon.
I remember sunsets with you.
Not the famous ones — the ordinary ones,
the ones where neither of us
said anything about the color because we didn't have to.
That ease — the not having to say —
is the texture I am losing fastest.
I still know the outline of your profile
against that kind of light.
But the particular expression —
the specific way your face held
a quiet sunset in an ordinary season —
I reach for it at the iron gate and wait.
The rose in my hand has a smell
I notice now more than I ever did before.
The cardinal does not move.
The sun holds its amber one moment longer.
I keep my eyes on the horizon.
Not for the beauty.
For the last version of the light
that looked like the light I remember.
— Memories of You