The world feels steeped in grief.
Death is countable. Grief immeasurable.
We grieve for more than people. We grieve moments. My mother wasn’t there to see me graduate. We grieve relationships. My mother never knew her grandson. We grieve objects. I wonder what other art my mother would have made?
I keep rewriting this post. I can’t escape myself enough to write it the way it should be written.
Make room for grief.
Make room for the grief of others.
We seem unable sometimes to imagine others feel as keenly as we do.
But imagine we must.
Imagine and listen.
I keep rewriting this post. It mentioned responsibility and time travel and the If Only and so many names…
I keep rewriting this post. Half-a-dozen paragraphs have been deleted after three hours. It’s as if words are supposed to be life rafts, but they keep sinking.
This is the Land of Grief and I’ve been here before. You never know when you’ll fine yourself here, and when you’re here, it’s hard to imagine leaving even when the border is open.
There is no map. It’s size and shape keep changing, shifting under your feet.
I keep rewriting this post. But to all the grieving my love.