Grief

It has found a permanent place in my life now.

It arrives as a tsunami.  Leaving me incapable of breath.  Underwater for months and years.  And then adrift.

My son shockingly died a few years ago.  He was my guy. When he was home, he’d take my hand and walk with me up to our barn.  We loved each other.

I don’t know how you get through something like this.

Grief.

I sat on my grey chair in front of the fireplace for a month.

I didn’t want to be outside.  

Friends would say, “Let’s go for a walk.  You need fresh air”. I finally would give in.  But it was frightening to me. I would go as far as the copse of trees at the corner of the driveway and turn around. I needed to be back in the confines of my kitchen. I felt solace in small, controlled spaces.

The outdoors felt too vast.   An open field left me apoplectic.   I couldn’t go out to stores.  They seemed self-indulgent, wrong and noisy.

Sweet people wandered through the house.  Some with a moment of advice that trickled through to me.  Others not.

My friend came to make soup.  Chicken soup. I can still see her there amidst the steam. In a grey striped apron.  She was just there. I don’t know if she said anything.

Friends brought us Christmas dinner.   They sat with us not seeming to mind the silence.  The lack of conversation.

I ate soup.

I spent time alone.   Sometimes with people in the background.   Which afforded comfort.  And safety.

I read books.  Usually by Buddhist authors.  They seemed to navigate the complexity of this. They seemed to understand.  

At night I read a journal of daily thoughts on grief and held on to a silk purple heart filled with lavender that a friend had given me.

I don’t know how you get through something like this.

I know it will continue.

When the tsunami subsides, a storm will follow.  

Your dog will become too old.  Your friend too sick. Your nephew too daring.

Life is learning to live with loss.

I know this, but will never be able to understand the lesson.