Grief

            Sadness, pain, loss, suffering.

            Memory of what was and memory of what should be, but isn’t.

            Grief hit hard this evening, sitting cross-legged in my bedroom. Off-white wall, gentle hum of the AC, the tinkling bell of a cat collar pacing outside the door, in the home that I had bought with the money that I had hard-earned, all the hallmarks of a reportedly capable adult. But I didn’t feel 35 and a woman grown though; I felt 15, en route to a local ice cream shop in my grandparents’ truck, summer heat blazing and the promise of a mint chocolate chip ice cream and a waffle cone keeping pace with the excitement of finally passing my ham radio exam.

            Nothing in this home that mattered, save me, had existed twenty years ago.

            But the wisdom and love and care of those who had passed in the interim still lived, as long as I remembered:

            In the mirror with that beautiful girl looking back, that I was loved.

            On long drives across Wyoming plain that hope comes in the morning, horizons stretching dusty rose red.

            Walking into court on a sensitive case, remembering that I can do hard things.

            Reminders came in the form of old memories and new friends, of recollections shared and passed through the years so that we could remind each other when one faltered:

            You are strong.

            You are loved.

            You are worthy.

           I wondered what my grandfather would have said, as I reached for the radio dial, if he had known how his words would spread like wildflowers on a fertile field. So many hearts hungry for someone to care, to believe, to share faith in them, to know that they too mattered. If he hadn’t said those words, every time we said hello and good bye, if they hadn’t imprinted so deep in heart and memory, what would have filled their absence?

            Maybe something similar. Maybe something not.

            I didn’t need music that evening to fill the silence. I didn’t need the chatter of code word to fill any gaps, and I sure didn’t need the contact from that one ex who couldn’t quite say bye.  

            On the floor, cross-legged, I relaxed my shoulders.  Grief of those passed felt easier to handle some evenings than the loss of someone who’d once promised forever but still reached out under professional pretenses. Victim needing aid, relative needing a counselor, or some training that he thought would interest me.

            No response to the latter, and a single name reference for the first two.  I owed the man nothing, but I owed what I could give to those still hurting.

            Slowly relaxing on bedroom floor, I let my shoulders drop and the tension drain: God, it hurt to grieve the living.

But it hurt worst to grieve that teenage girl who had once promised herself a man as good as her father and his father before him, back when the only worry was if they’d beat the baseball team’s rush for ice cream.