I wrote this piece recently in memory of that time of grief after Dave died. We had a writing prompt in a writing club let me travel back in time...
No one told me that grief is animalistic. It is so painful that I only trust myself to breathe from the top of my chest. If I breathe into my belly, I will undoubtedly melt away somewhere dark, damp, and scary. Who knows if I will find my way back.
Friends and colleagues mean well. Some send books on grief. Why are there so many? What makes the authors experts on the topic? Reading their titles stun and bores me at the same time. I do not have the strength to open their covers.
The only true consolation I have found is a thought that a dear friend shared. She said, "Imagine standing in a circle with 100 people holding hands. Each of us is asked to gently lift off the suffering, pain, and burden on our shoulders and place it in the middle of the circle. We do this one by one, humbly acknowledging the growing mountain of woes. Then we are asked to go back to the center and choose a fair measure of burden. Most of us would choose to take back what we laid down."
Whenever I am at risk of melting away into this abyss called morning your death, I say to myself, "fair measure," and I am comforted to know at least here and now, you are still with me.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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