I could say that it was easy, sitting there with her, watching her die, but it wasn’t. There was nothing easy about it, nor awful for that matter. It was what it was.
I was asked the other day how I was doing with her death, and, at the time, I said I was fine. The funny thing about grief is that it never presents itself in a neat, time-efficient package. Grief pokes its boney head up at the most unexpected of moments.
And, as if the word “fine” queued its arrival, grief rose up, having been silently slumbering under my skin. The fourteenth—the day of her death—hit the calendar, and I woke with grief tangled about my throat, not enough to strangle, just enough to tighten my breath and moisten my eyes.
When memories of her surface, many thoughts accompany her, thoughts of my boys, of my husband, of my family. I send quiet prayers from my heart to each of them, hoping they find their way through their grief, however heavy it may be.
There are times when chatting with family, laughing, and sharing, I’m hit with sadness. I wouldn’t say this sadness is debilitating or all-consuming, but it is powerful enough to stall my mind and voice and leave me with nothing other than the desperate need to cry.
These pieces of time are unforeseen—unlike the fourteenth, a date we will cycle through every month. These pieces pop up like moles shoving dirt out and up from the earth.
Grief will not be stifled or muted. There’s no point in trying.
Continue on with what you were doing before grief stepped into view.
Grief will persist until it’s consumed, and even then, it will sneak to the surface when least expected, when the consensus said it was finished.
Don’t deny grief its due—it will take it whether you wish it to or not.
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