Grief is Hardest at Night
And anxiety casts scary shadows
I too lost my breath the day he died.
Don’t get me wrong, I always knew he would eventually. I knew he should because of the laws of nature. I knew he could because he kept reminding us that one day, we all will. I still can’t believe he actually went and did it.
And five years later here I am, still a casualty of his absence. Living my daily life anywhere on the spectrum of being the world record keeper for the longest breath ever held, and being a zombie- albeit an efficient and charming one. And yet zombieland has not spared me from still being a victim of the human condition with all its associated entrapments and feelings. So, my best hope is to make do in these liminal spaces where so many of us reside till I am ready to breathe again. ‘One day at a time’-ing it just to get by.
At least I have now come to the acceptance that nothing could have saved me from this grief.
They say it’s the price I have to pay for the love that was. To me it’s the price I have to pay for the love that must continue across the realms of the living and the dead. It is the price I will willingly keep paying to make sure my faith too, doesn’t die; the doubting belief that when I’m done with this earth I will see his face in the crowd of my ancestors welcoming me to…
