How grief spends this February day with me

We all want to be seen, especially grief

Painting by Author

Grief stands beside me while I light a candle. She watches my gaze shift from the flame to the window. I count the birds in my yard and gather my thoughts. Lighting the candle is one of my favorite rituals, a small act of remembrance for my daughter Ana, who died nearly eight years ago in March.

Eight years of lighting candles with only Grief for company. It used to seem unfathomable, but now it’s just how I start my day.

“Don’t forget to blow the candle out,” Grief reminds me. “You should stop burning candles. You’ll forget again. You’ll burn the house down.”

I ignore the disapproval in her voice. She knows what the candles mean to me. I need the glow of a tiny flame. I need the heat. February is a hard month in New York. It’s colorless, cold, raw. Even all these years later, I’m reminded starkly of Ana’s final weeks and how she struggled to stay warm.

“It’s a fire hazard,” Grief says. “The smoke is bad for you.” She can’t help herself. Grief will never stop trying to take things away.

“You worry too much,” I say. She evaporates, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I go through my morning tasks — checking email, responding to clients, scheduling work…