8/14/13

inexplicable grief

Life is unpredictable.  One minute you're discussing the possibility and probability of rain or recollecting someone based on the color of their hair and in the next minute you're in a fog, trying to remember what day it is and the last time the weather was so beautiful it brought you to tears.

Today is one of those days. It is cool and crisp, leaning toward the end of summer, a sunny Wednesday in August. Three weeks shy of Labor Day. It is a day where Dad would have been obnoxiously alert and chipper, a day where the radio would have piqued at 7AM and the shuffling of his feet on the staircase would have had a rhythm, one part rumba one part stroll. It may have included a knock on the door, a good morning greeting with an offering of bananas. When he had energy it was contagious, and when he didn't the house seemed to creak with its heaviness.


This day is halfway good, halfway bad. The sunshine is refreshing, the air vitalizing but my head is foggy still. It's only been two weeks since the fall, twelve days since the day, possibly the saddest I will know this decade. I know we're only three years in but right now that's what it feels like to me. There seems to be one every ten years, whether that's purposeful or not I don't know. 

Loss happens to everyone. And the grief which affects the saddest people and the happiest of people, attacks silently. Unnoticeably at first, it's expected in unexpected ways; one never knows what will be the trigger. And like a phantom itch grazing against the nerve endings of our heart, lightly touching our soul, it is both intangible and inexplicable.  

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