“You can never blow bubbles when you are angry,” my grandmother intoned. She kept of bottle of solution and a wand on the kitchen windowsill.
“It helps me calm down when I am upset.”
Standing at the funeral the frustration of grief disrupted the rhythm of my breathing. A short, sharp inhalation held, drawing the wand to my lips and slowly, deliberately exhaling.
A steady stream of bubbles rushed forward before settling in the hands of the breeze. They rose and danced before fading and disappearing.