She carried them about,
stones in her pockets.
Each one a little secret.

The weight of them
distracting her in conversations.
The bulk of them
effecting her posture.
They would knock
when she would walk.

While she could manage
the slight though ever present
force they exerted
she was perpetually terrified
that one day,
in the midst of some random encounter,
a small hole would
open up
allowing them to tumble out.

They did eventually become too heavy
and the pressure of them
made a space
where
sickness poured in
taking their place.

Stones in the pockets
was not the official diagnosis.
But that's what killed her.
I know
because I watched it.

And I miss her.  
That one woman who loved me
unconditionally.
I need her at times
like now.

I carry no stones of my own
and I am not afraid of holes
but
sometimes
we need the kind of love
that has no strings
like when the other kinds
wish to bury us.