10 years

10 years of grief...

I always say it’s quieter than it was at the beginning.

It was so loud that I couldn’t ignore it. The grief would press into me at the same time it tried to escape, knocking me to the ground and blurring the world.

It’s mostly small now...so small that I almost forget it’s there. Until it gets loud again, so loud that it feels just like the first night I lost her.

I’ve defined grief in so many ways over the years. Lately, it’s like a snowfall. I know what snow looks like. I have felt it, and I’ve tasted its coldness.

Snow is known; it is a collective experience. But each snowflake is unique. One flake so distinct and yet easily recognizable as snow.

Grief is the same. Each person experiences it in a singular way, but it’s easily recognizable.

Long grief feels like welcoming people to stand with you in a snowfall. Their grief is their own. Their loss will never fully be known to you, but we can make space to stand with them in the cold.

We can let the snow fall. We can remember, together.