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Even Grieving Is a Privilege Denied to Many
We are numb in this morning-after nightmare we’re still calling reality. Welcome to the zombie stupor of grief as we shuffle through the motions.
All I can offer today is a bedraggled stream of consciousness that will take you from Wendell Berry to elementary school to Ross Gay and back to Wendell Berry. I hope the scenic route distracts you from where I fear we’re headed. If you’re in shock too, you’re welcome to ride along with me if you like. I’m getting coffee first.
The afternoon is grey and it still feels like a too-early morning by the time I find my way to a coffee shop. I’m quietly astonished to see pairs and groups just visiting with each other. Chatting. They also managed to change out of their pajamas, put actual clothes on, and leave the house.
Not everyone can afford to stay in bed and sob. Not everyone can wander into a coffee shop in the middle of the week in a daze. Not everyone gets to indulge inertia, even temporarily. Grieving is a privilege.
I tried not to stare at the one woman standing at a table by herself doing artwork, some kind of sketching or brushing on a metal canvas of sorts, art supplies all over two tables shoved together. Part of me couldn’t believe coffee shops were open at all. Remind me again how tragedy doesn’t grind everything to a halt?
