Grief Tower

Unfelt grief stacks up. 

A white-blonde image falls across a mispronounced word. A whisper of remembered laughter leans in and a missed opportunity for connection lands on top. The grin of a milestone reached and the pain of the one that should be now collect like blocks. The unfelt loss and lightly noticed sadness stack up in a tower. Unshed tears crawl up and find their way into crevices and balance atop the bits and pieces of life well lived, settling in puddles of regret for healing that did not come.

Day by day today's life is lived. In the life of after, one foot steps in front of the other. The illusion that grief is lessening makes way for things that matter to move forward unmarred by anguish. It's a useful, even necessary, pattern for continuing to live when he isn't. But grief isn't lessening. It's piling up in the corner leaving a clear space in which to live today. 

Moment by moment, bit by bit, stifled sob by suppressed remembrance, the tower grows taller and more precarious, like the games of Jenga we stretched to one more round and then another. 

Like the game, it can't go on forever. Unpredictably, without warning, there is one tear too many, the foundation has become too thin. The tower becomes an avalanche. Loss and tears and memories flood the day, or days. Grief claims primacy. I flail about reaching for stability that isn't there, something to hold on to as I'm tossed about in the rapids. 

The very things that bring comfort, his smile, the way he ran, the clever ways his mind worked, are reminders of loss too. 

When there is nothing to hold on to there is one source of warmth: As lonely as grief can seem, I am not alone. When I have nothing to hold on to, there is someone who holds on to me.