Grief and all Her Friends

Grief has hills and valleys.

Or is it that Grief is hills and valleys?

Either way — personification of grief aside — it’s so strange how those valleys seem to appear without warning. Grief doesn’t care where you cry.

So maybe it’s that Grief is hills and quicksand.

No, Grief is the slow pulse of the fiddle. It is the velvety moan of the banjo. The sweet tears of the violin.

Grief is bitter coffee — hot and strong. (I think of you every time I measure out the grinds; scoop by scoop. Sometimes I add an extra spoonful. It’s my daily ode to your spirit — my calendarized reminder of your absence. My morning coffee tastes like Rhode Island and sorrow). I swallow grief.

Grief is a guest at your wedding (a table of 10). Sometimes grief does the chicken dance. Do people still do the chicken dance at weddings? Grief is such a dork.

Grief loves family photographs. Grief loves to point and say, “See, there. That was your last hug. That was the last time you said ‘I love you.’ Where does your hair stop and her hair begin? What was making her laugh?’” Do you think she knew then? Grief loves the calendar.It’s been one week, and then (how has it been) two. And just like that — it’s been three. Suddenly, a month! I imagine that eventually time stops becoming a marker for grief.

Grief works on the weekends and doesn’t take the holidays off. Grief prefers to work on Christmas. She says it’s when She can focus best. Save a plate for Grief. No cranberry sauce, please.

But Grief stops on the fourth of July. Grief pauses at the shoreline, and looks back at the row of chairs in the sand. She smiles and waves.

Can you drown Grief? Is she flammable? Can you strangle Grief? Moreover, can you stop Grief from killing someone else?

It’s not the leaving that’s grieving me. It’s just the thought of weak coffee and the ache of too much time gone and not enough to spare. It’s in everything that came in the before, the sweet nectar of the in-between, and the salty taste of bitter regret in the after. Maybe it is Grief speaking for me, but I think our souls danced in tandem and that our paths converged in ways we were never able to convey to one another. It was our unspoken bond. You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.

I have heard that Grief leaves eventually. One day, I imagine coffee will no longer be flavored with Her thick dread. The measuring, though, will always require the extra spoonful of you.