A friend’s father died this morning. When P called to give me the news, I began with action – flowers, a donation, arrangements. But so soon, there is none of that to know, none to do . . . then the tears come. For him. For his children. His grandchildren. And for us, for our Mom gone. I don’t think there will ever be a day when the loss of one parent does not drag forth the loss of my own.
And yet, there is nothing to be done. Nothing that heals over the loss wholly, nothing that makes it better. Just the “presence of her absence” to bear every day for the rest of my life.
So I write. I write through the tears that turn my silver laptop salty. Through the imaginings of what this funeral will be like for his family – the vast vacuum of ache that will fill them for days to come.
It is always this for me – the way words tug me through the worst slaps of pain. I suspect for others music or a kind touch or a hike or the disassembling of a car engine do the same.
But always, here, it’s words. Laid out as prayers and tears and maybe the tiny candle of hope.
And peace, the rest of peace.
What do you turn to when grief hits hard?
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