Grief is everywhere
Grief is everywhere.
It hangs between the lines of every conversation. It follows me, lives in me, an intangible weight and force that touches everything.
I can’t find a place to go where you aren’t. Every song, every book, every place, every landscape, every memory, every thing contains pieces of you.
There you are, in the dollar section at Target, where you used to buy little gifts for my kids and send them in festive, thoughtful care packages.
There you are, as I browse the shelves, unable to break my habit of continually looking for gifts for you (you’ve always been my favorite person to buy for).
There you are, in the book I’m reading that seems innocuous enough until I suddenly find myself reading the lyrics of a familiar song, a song that you sent me before you died, a song that you said summed up how you hoped you would leave things when your time was up.
There you are, in the texts I can’t send you, that punch in the gut I feel every time I pick up my phone to tell you something and then remember that my texts will never get to where you are.
There you are, every time I scroll through my playlists and then give up the search. There are so many songs that make me come undone, so much music that we shared. I rarely listen to music these days.
There you are, in all my favorite movies and shows (because they were your favorites too).
There you are, each time one of my kids says something funny and I know no one would appreciate it more than Aunt Melissa.
There you are, as the snow falls, as I think about how beautiful the world is and rage at how unfair it is that you aren’t here for all this wonder.
There you are, when your husband logs into your Facebook account and that little green dot appears next to your name. For just a moment my heart jumps, thinking you must be there, until I remember that you’re not. Still, that green dot gives me comfort. It breaks my heart a little each time it disappears.
There you are, in the many gifts you’ve given me over the years that are sprinkled all over my house. In your absence on group texts. In the jokes in my head that only you would appreciate.
There you are, as I snuggle up against my hot water bottle (the one that you gave me, the one that matches yours) and pretend that the warmth is you.
There you are, as I lie in bed at night, trying to calm my racing thoughts, and I imagine you curled up next to me. I pretend we are still tracing letters on each others’ backs, still decoding each other’s secret messages.
There you are, right next to me, when I ask over and over again, “Seester, are you there?”
You answer, clear as day, “I’m here.”
There you are, everywhere.
Grief is everywhere.
It hangs between the lines of every conversation. It follows me, lives in me, an intangible weight and force that touches everything.
I can’t find a place to go where you aren’t. Every song, every book, every place, every landscape, every memory, every thing contains pieces of you.
There you are, in the dollar section at Target, where you used to buy little gifts for my kids and send them in festive, thoughtful care packages.
There you are, as I browse the shelves, unable to break my habit of continually looking for gifts for you (you’ve always been my favorite person to buy for).
There you are, in the book I’m reading that seems innocuous enough until I suddenly find myself reading the lyrics of a familiar song, a song that you sent me before you died, a song that you said summed up how you hoped you would leave things when your time was up.
There you are, in the texts I can’t send you, that punch in the gut I feel every time I pick up my phone to tell you something and then remember that my texts will never get to where you are.
There you are, every time I scroll through my playlists and then give up the search. There are so many songs that make me come undone, so much music that we shared. I rarely listen to music these days.
There you are, in all my favorite movies and shows (because they were your favorites too).
There you are, each time one of my kids says something funny and I know no one would appreciate it more than Aunt Melissa.
There you are, as the snow falls, as I think about how beautiful the world is and rage at how unfair it is that you aren’t here for all this wonder.
There you are, when your husband logs into your Facebook account and that little green dot appears next to your name. For just a moment my heart jumps, thinking you must be there, until I remember that you’re not. Still, that green dot gives me comfort. It breaks my heart a little each time it disappears.
There you are, in the many gifts you’ve given me over the years that are sprinkled all over my house. In your absence on group texts. In the jokes in my head that only you would appreciate.
There you are, as I snuggle up against my hot water bottle (the one that you gave me, the one that matches yours) and pretend that the warmth is you.
There you are, as I lie in bed at night, trying to calm my racing thoughts, and I imagine you curled up next to me. I pretend we are still tracing letters on each others’ backs, still decoding each other’s secret messages.
There you are, right next to me, when I ask over and over again, “Seester, are you there?”
You answer, clear as day, “I’m here.”
There you are, everywhere.
Grief is everywhere.