I’ve heard it said that grief has stages
that it’s a process

my grief is a list

my grief is a blow to the chest, standing breathless in a doorway
an hour late
a strange smell
too few seats

shock

my grief is an abandoned garden, earth cleared ready for planting
no hand to dig
words released
gifts to the soil

tears

my grief is a dark room, eyes open staring into the night
an empty cup
a silent promise

numb

my grief is a heavy cloak, a conflicted weave of threads
a weight I drag behind me
a burden I cling to

safe

my grief is hungry
it eats my sleep
it eats my dreams
it asks too much

my grief is a second blow, standing barefoot in the driveway
a familiar voice, unfamiliar confusion
forgotten actions
forgotten words

remote

my grief is sympathetic, falling into old habits
searching for an open a door
an open hand
a smile

calm

my grief is a locked box, the key long gone
unanswered questions
unresolved history
uncertain future

regret              

my grief is a lesson
in patience and trust
learning to wait
to give my mind time to adjust and make new connections
to give my heart time to accept the loss
to become used to this new truth

accept

my grief is fickle
it will begin to lose interest
it will stop paying attention
it won’t notice when I look the other way
it will start hunting elsewhere to be entertained

relief

and when it does
I will leave the house
stand in the rain
and breathe

lost birds settle on my shoulders

when I go inside
I see what grief has left for me on the table
photos
old china
and memories

©clairegriffin2020