I am waiting for Grief.
Although I’m not exactly sure what I’m waiting for, I just know I’m expecting it soon. I’ve never properly felt Grief’s company. At least, not in a technical sense. I’m aware of how it should feel, but I’m waiting—my eyes screwed shut in hopes that it won’t change my view on the world—to finally feel it entirely: grief for something that isn’t gone quite yet.
With empathy being the epitome of my being, I’ve learned to experience things through other people. I grieve for a man in my family through my parents—the only people who grew familiar with the level of positivity and passion only he could embrace. Learning how to feel, how often to cry, and when to let go by observing felt like taking a test for a class that I’m not a part of.
Maturing gave me the confidence to realize that the grieving sequence is not a linear path. To truly understand, I had to figure it out on my own. It never occurred to me, however, that it would test my patience.
Today, the tension of time passing without any notion of Grief’s arrival has developed a collection of gray hairs, soft craters under my eyes, and the sensation that my bones have become brittle enough to not feel physical pain under immense pressure. I would simply collapse to the ground—broken.
Today, my breath has fogged the window where I spend the majority of the day sitting, watching, waiting for a sign before that knock on my door. Sometimes, I’ll let time slip away. My eyes will flash with the change of night and day, light and dark, when the sun and the moon amicably exchange places. But I don’t dare to blink.
Today, like many other days, I’ve gotten tired of looking out the window. Instead, I plant myself in front of the clock: a more modern approach of watching time pass yet none the more exciting. The ticking becomes as loud as gunshots and the chimes at the end of every hour hurt my ears. I am watching the clock, but I couldn’t tell you how much time has passed since the first tear wet my cheek; my eyes are itchy and glazed from not missing a single second.
The feeling that I’m already trudging through the stages of Grief has finally overcome me. Maybe I’m still in denial. It’s funny and unnerving, waiting for something to end while you know you must continue. I know I must keep moving.
I find it hard to even step outside anymore. Hard to look at the sunrise, the sunset, and the blue in between knowing that Grief will take that away from someone. It’s hard to look people in the eye.
But I know I must. I must go outside, and I must look people in the eye. Not because I have to, but because my feet are begging me for new shoes. The pacing has not only worn down the carpet, but I also have holes in the soles from the beating of my blistered feet. And my body is begging me for more warmth. As if awaiting your absence hasn’t already made my blood run cold, I know the presence of Grief will make things unbearable.
My soul is becoming sore, but unlike my feet, it hasn’t blistered quite yet. I prevent it from healing because I get the feeling that the heartbreak will hurt less if the wound is already open.
I don’t know what I’ll feel. A quick stab to my heart? One that steals my breath away and captures the light from my eyes, but steadily, over time, will reward me with it again. Or will it be slow? Like a fog that enters my mind and makes me forget all control.
I don’t think Grief takes your preferences into consideration when granting you its company. One thing’s for sure, I hope the waiting is more excruciating than its arrival.
