i know little about grief

i know it is like
the sight of mangoes before you get your hands on them
lovely, yellow, bright,
desiring, yearning, longing to take a bite
like the 
pot my grandpa used to brew
red tea, redder tea and the occasional arbi stew
like the 
tombstone white from fresh carving,
dust on my hands from the touch
colour darkened from the crying
i know it becomes the 
rush of joy, first bite, juice dripping down the hands
hands full of something holy
like the pot that holds
the stew for a family, the tea for after the stew
the pot washed and dried on the rack
like the touch 
that keeps the mold from flowering
smoothening the rough edges
weeds pulled, thrown to the side.
i know how it can be
when the hand is empty
and the not knowing settles in - 
left alone to deal with the stickiness it leaves behind
it could be the pot
collecting dust, collecting dents
now used to keep old trinkets
no longer heated, only stains remain
from the brewing, the stewing
it could be like the
stone that turns green
like the floral patterns to dress the
name no longer remembered
the mould making up for the
grief that is no longer.