It’s hard to explain grief. Trillions of words, millions of books and countless blogs have been written on grief. I’m simply adding to it. And with Covid, millions of families are experiencing a cruel grief, unable even to mourn in the traditional way.
Grief washes over me with no warning. I see his handwriting and it brings me almost to my knees. I look at photos and cannot believe there will be no new images added to the album. I cannot distinguish between sadness and grief – and it doesn’t really matter anyway. Death is so final. I never knew that. You can be lonely and yet live with the hope that the loneliness will fade, but the loneliness of grief is overwhelming. I know I have to go through it to get over it; I know it will take time; I know I have to give myself grace to deal with this one day at a time. But grief is like another sense – it prickles my skin; it tastes; I can hear it.
It’s not been four months. He would be proud of me, though. I have pumped my own gas twice – OK, the first time I poured gas all down the side of my Jeep. No one told me I had to let go of the trigger when I pulled the nozzle out. But I didn’t do that the second time. Although when I filled up last week, it took me several seconds to figure out how to replace the nozzle in the pump and I stood there poking it up and down until it found its home.
There is comedy in grief. He would have found that funny, too, and laughed out loud. I miss his huge laugh like I miss a lot of things.