The thunder booms and the lightening crashes as I hold you tight. Your grief and pain leaks out as you shudder in my arms. “Shush baby, I know it hurts but it will be OK. I’m here to help you, if you let me.” I kiss your forehead and run my fingers through your hair. I want to take your pain and sorrow and bundle it up and put it up on a shelf but I can’t, you have to go through it.
It feels like being underwater. You push to the surface, at least you try to, but you only sink deeper. Grief is like that. Just when you think you might break through that piece of seaweed wraps around your ankle. The mermaid under the surface grabs your arm and pulls you back.
You feel like pulling your hoodie over your head and pulling the strings tight so you can’t see out. If you can’t see out then no one can see in. And if they can’t see you then you can ignore them. And in ignoring them there is peace, at least for a few minutes. You know at some point you will have to take your hood down and face them, but just not right now.
Another casserole, another plate of food. Another hand on your shoulder. They mean well but they just annoy you. You sneak out to the greenhouse to hide, you hide in her sanctuary. The flowers smell just like they did last week, they don’t know that she’s gone. How do you tell them?
You don’t want to feel better right now. You want to wallow, and that’s OK. Wallowing is a valid reaction to losing someone dear to you. We all wallow in our own way. You? Well you get quiet, maybe you shut down. But those that know you know you’ll pull out of it because you are strong. You know what needs to be done. And when it is all settled, when all has been laid to rest, you can work on feeling better.