Quiet Grief

Grief went quiet. I didn't notice that it was happening so much as that it had. I was surprised to realize it had been days since I'd cried.

I thought of Ryan still every day, but mostly of his younger years. I remembered happy times, his smile, the glint in his eye when he knew he was being clever. 

With grief quiet, I went about a normal life, meeting with clients, planning meals, catching up on dozens of tasks that had been neglected in grief and in the months and years before when the burdens of motherhood had depleted me.  

With grief quiet, Jamie and I planned our wedding, a trip east to see Megan's end-of-year show. I remembered that the last time I'd seen her perform in person was three years ago (pre-covid), when she was younger than Ryan is now. She told me she's better now. I said I hoped so, or something wasn't working right with her training program. We laughed and made plans to see a Cirque show together, something we couldn't have done with Ryan's graduation.  

With grief quiet I made arrangements for a last memorial for Ryan, a scattering of ashes in a place I remember him happy. The final formal group remembering of his life in the state where he died. Even as I met with the pastor and planned the service, grief stayed quiet. 

I began to settle into a rhythm for a new life. It felt comfortable, full of love and ease and many good things. When I noticed that grief was quiet it seemed strange, but also good that life could be so normal, so happy, that I could love Ryan as fiercely as ever, and miss him, and still be giddy with new love and wedding plans and life ahead, but so it was.  

Until now.  As the wedding approaches and the ceremony begins to come together. We're talking about the joining of our families, ways to honor our children, things we might say to our daughters, and for Ryan, rosemary sprigs for remembrance. Suddenly, unexpectedly, grief has returned. I'm sobbing into Jamie's shoulder, into my pillow, wiping my nose on my sleeves. I am again exhausted as I was a month ago. 

The memories now aren't of a bright smiling child running in the woods and grinning over a joke. The memories flooding in now are of the way he looked the morning I found him - his head back, his mouth open, and a line of blood running down the side of his chin. I remember the last time I had breakfast with him and the pain in his voice as he said, "It's just so hard." and all I want in the world is to hold him until he is well, to curl my body around him and protect him from all the hard things until he's healed and strong and finding joy again. 

Six days from now I will marry a man I adore. Our families will come together to witness the formal beginning of a new and beautiful life, and while we're together, we'll take pictures of our new family, the ones it was premature to take when we were all together at Thanksgiving. We'll take a picture of Jamie and I with our grown children, a first family picture. Our first. And the first without Ryan. Between us we have two beautiful daughters and a lovely son-in-law. It will be a beautiful photo, but just now I can't imagine that I will ever look at it without seeing mostly the one who isn't there.

Grief is not quiet today.