As far as thieves go, grief is the greatest one.
She robs us of the people we love, but—perhaps most achingly—she zaps our
ability to imagine the future, without someone, or something, no longer in it.
Lose a place, a person, or a love and, suddenly, measurements of time become
irrelevant. Grief warps time; she renders our plans for next week and dreams
for the next vacation incongruous. When we mourn our losses we also mourn, for
better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As our life once
was. As our life is no longer. As we will one day not be at all.
My discontent with grief comes from its blocking
my boundless want. By drawing strict lines between my living and those whom I
have lost, places and moments I have lost, grief casts the world in harsh
light. She makes it impossible to believe in forever. Instead, she injects a
heinous pragmatism into sentiments that would rather be unadulterated by it.
The triumph of love over loss, of affection over grief, of dreaming over pain
is a learned ability for me. I grieve the moments in life which pass through
me, the moments that break my heart...leaving me momentarily stunned, unable to
utter a word.... leaving me in solitude, complete silence...I'm not so far
removed that I have forgotten, that grief is a scary place.
Chills prickle down my arms.
My throat becomes stifled with nameless emotion.
Do you ever catch the scent of a memory?
I do
that too.
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