I wear it.
It’s waiting for me every morning when I rise. It is staring at me like an old friend, waiting for our day to start together. Sometimes it is so eager to see me that it hovers atop me and is the first thing that I focus on when I open my eyes. Sometimes I can feel the weight of its presence even before my eyes open. Most days I wake hoping that it is not there. Not that it is delayed or late, but that maybe it took a vacation, moved away, or was supernaturally destroyed in the night. Without fail, there it is. And I put it on, wearing it for another day.
It looks like.
It appears mostly invisible. It doesn’t typically show in my eyes or my face. If you had never met me, you would not know I was wearing it. It looks like a glance shared between someone close when the subject is brought up. In public it is very well behaved. In private, on those highly active days, it looks like, carving a turkey with your emotional heart in its place. It looks like crocodile tears and an ugly cry face. It looks like unbelief, unbearable pain and hyperventilation.
It acts like.
It urges memories to appear in the surface of my conscience. The details that are sacred now, that brings my focus back to it. Mostly it lingers. There are small and gentle nudges. Little pangs of hurt, followed by small rushes of want, desire and yearn. First the light tingles tempt me into gazing upon memories of late – something I remember makes me smile because I experience amazing moments when there was much warmth around my heart. It builds on those moments; one by one they pass in front of me; and I smile and remember what it was like to be in her presence. One by one, they pass until they are gathered together and have collected enough steam. The moment it has me alone it pounces on me and pulls the bottom floor from underneath me. I am reminded that the one that helped create those magical moments is gone and it will be a very long “time” before I see her again.
It feels like.
At times it is heavy. It is always taking up residence in my heart, kicking it softly. Other times it reaches up into my throat and takes hold. It punches me unexpectedly in the stomach and takes my breath away and I physically gasp for the air to return into my lungs. It will open the door to my emotional room and empty me of the pressure that has risen inside, for if it did not, I would lose myself in it. It is not always bad and I do not resent it. Greif helps me relieve and heal. If it did not love me, it would not show up every day to traverse through small pieces at a time. It will always be with me, this lifelong friend knows that it gets weaker every day it is with me, making me stronger. It has a mission and it will fulfill it to the end.
The alternative is to become numb and I refuse to die.
To grieve is to live; love, endure pain, feel the sting of sadness and the bliss in joy – finish.
To become numb in the world is to perish.
Life After Her 