Grief

I have experienced grief. I am not young. But I am not old. I am somewhere in between. Straddling fatherhood. Marriage. I am somewhere in the middle of everything, but yet also so humbled with the knowledge that I am at the beginning of it. I am tempted by a thousand unrealized dreams. But I know grief.

Grief is not a regular. No. He has a distinctive and commanding presence – and he’s quite the fashionista. He goes through wardrobes. Whole closets of the latest trend. It shares clothing with anxiety -but unlike him, Grief wears it well. He dresses for the occasion. And, much to my distaste, his taste is impeccable. Grief likes fine wine. Grief carries a conversation. Grief is strong. And he demands the most intimate of conversations – like he’s just dying to know what’s holding you together. He’s the guest that you never see enter. You just walk into the kitchen and, well, there he is.

I know grief.

I know grief shrouded in the death of a friend. I know grief in the loss of love. I know grief in the destruction of dreams. I know grief in the pummeled hopes of a career. Loss of friendship.

Loss of sense itself. Or lack there of.

I am only human. I am only flesh and bone. Not like Grief. So who am I to him? Oh great, fashionable Grief who sweeps me up into his arms and calls upon the saddest of songs to which to dance. Who am I to fight?

I am not young. But I am not old. I am somewhere in between. Straddling fatherhood. Marriage. I am somewhere in the middle of everything, but yet also so humbled with the knowledge that I am at the beginning of it. I am tempted by a thousand unrealized dreams.

So as Grief swings me I wonder, “why?” Why was now the time? What, if anything, could I have done to avoid this? Could I have set myself up differently? Why does Grief get to take this from me?

My daughters eyes are like the sea. I know she sees. I ache that she sees. I ache that she senses this new guest – this Grief. I do not ache my wounds.

I ache that she hears his coo. I fight with everything that she doesn’t. But she does. I try and I try to sing above him. To play and dance and spin about with noise. But I fall short. Gasping into silence for a breath enough to carry on.

And in that space I know she hears - that I am not young. But I am not old. I am somewhere in the in between – caught up and distracted  in a lengthy conversation with a new and unfamiliar face. This Grief. And I ache to know that she will know him too. One day.