grief

I'm gaining an intimate relationship with grief. Now instead of Andy, I sit down for coffee every morning with grief.  At night I go to bed with grief and wake up with its cold back curled against mine.  I have long talks with grief, it holds my hand, and sits next to me in the car. Grief co-parents with me and takes walks with me and lays heavy across my shoulders like his arm might have done as I sat next to him on the couch.  I resent grief filling these spaces of intimacy that were Andy's.  But I can't not write about it, just because its hard or because it makes us all wince.  It's real and true.  One day grief will be your companion too.

Intimacy was woven into our everyday.  I miss his casual touch, the brush of his hand in mine, the way he'd push my hair behind my ear when he was talking to me.  I miss being the half of his whole, knowing that when everyone went home, I still got him.  I miss the way I could make him laugh until tears rolled out his eyes.  I miss the soft feel of his cheek (the part where no whiskers grew) against mine.  I miss the way his indented fingernails felt as I rubbed them absentmindedly.  I miss his smell and the way his skin felt when I laid my head on his chest.  I miss his twinkling eyes knowing what I was going to say before I said it.  I miss that when he was frustrated with me he laughed because we knew it was so hard to be angry with each other for long. I miss the way he'd look at me over the kids heads, commiserating or agreeing or giving the me the don't-you-dare eye.

Grief holds tight our hands now, but we remember him.  We remember how our every day was SO full with him.  His laughter, his cooking, his touch, his love.  And though grief has a place at our table now we understand the paradox.  Grief sits there with us because we had the very best and we were so loved by him.