Grief
Grief as knees buckling when given the news I already knew or grief as a foreign country or grief as the ball I stuff inside a jar hoping one day the jar will expand to fit it grief as breath grief as the words lodged in my throat I can’t find the way to dislodging when the man I love is trying desperately to reach me with his words about loving me and loving us and loving our life grief as the blood on my best friend’s shoes pulled out of the personal property box we got back from the morgue grief as the dark nights I can’t stop thinking about those last minutes grief as pressing my head against the chest of the man I love just to hear his heart beat or wrapping my body around his and tucking my palm underneath his left side so it feels a little like his heart is beating in my hands grief as silent tears in the night grief as another sleepless night grief as the black cat I inherited curled into my lap and purring grief as an eviscerating game of what if grief as old voicemails grief as the surety of hearing my dead best friend’s words when I cleaned up that space in the garage Liz don’t do this grief as anger grief as the bedside stand its drawers stenciled and penciled into an organizer with my best friend’s handwriting grief as the realization I don’t have a best friend anymore grief as the realization that love isn’t enough grief as loving someone my best friend loved simply because he loved her and that is enough and everything grief as a rifle grief as ashes grief as that red Patagonia jacket I washed three times grief as not being able to share about the eagle who almost dropped a flounder on me while I kayaked one sunny spring day or the English sheepdog puppy in the neighborhood named Ozzy grief as the dark hallways of my mind where I played hide and seek with a ghost grief as not being sure I even believe in ghosts grief as seeing someone who looks like my best friend in the freezer section at Trader Joe’s and grief as another breath caught in my throat and the world slowing down when the person in the freezer section was not in fact my dead best friend grief as staring into space instead of working grief as another middle of the night walk through this quiet town grief as thousands of memories like snapshots I’m afraid of exposing to light and afraid of losing in the dusty corners of my mind grief as temptress grief as companion grief as my habit even before my best friend died grief as anticipatory grief as my heartbeat grief as the last recipe he sent me that I can’t bring myself to make grief as a tiny lion grief as fantasizing about alternate universes where somewhere my best friend’s still living and somewhere he’s been dead even longer grief as that What If episode about Dr. Strange and grief as that Grey’s Anatomy episode where Teddy wants more than anything for Allison to still be alive and grief as What Dreams May Come and grief as Robin Williams movies breaking my heart again and again grief as not being surprised by the ending and grief as not knowing what to say when people ask did I know and the answer is yes grief as ruinous words scattered across pages grief as so many platitudes by people who mean well and know nothing of this type of grief which is both exactly like and completely different from all other types of grief grief as the friend who was brave enough to say “it may never get better” and “I don’t know what you’re feeling but I know what I felt when” grief as old photographs grief as responsibility grief as regret and grief as love and grief as a relief I feel guilty about grief as the outfit I sometimes forget I’m wearing
