It’s been one month and three days since she went away. My sister, my friend. My second mother. Brash and beautiful and loving. One month ago, on June 6, I was writing this, her eulogy. Today I realized, as I was going for a short run before the heat set in, that even if I’m fine day-to-day, even if I get work done, I’m still filled with sadness and a sense of loss that’s somehow tinged with anger.
And yet I also think I write too much about grief. I was just looking at Huffwire—a separate Medium blog I set aside to publish slightly more finished things I couldn’t figure out how to pitch to people who’d pay me for them—and saw it. All the grieving. I’m not sure how to get past it, at the moment. I joke a lot on my Twitter feeds, I’ve written a book that is sold under “Parody” on Amazon and am writing another in a similar voice. I don’t even think of myself as a gloomy guy.
Grief has figured in my writing life for so long. I guess in part it’s my way of processing things—writing it out—and that’s good, perhaps, because others can maybe see they’re not alone in feeling some of the things that go with mourning. It’s also bad because it can lead to accusations of self-dramatization. The worst of those accusations come from inside my own head, of course.
But here I am, writing about it again. And not sure what I’m saying. Perhaps just writing things out to see them on a screen, hoping once they’re out they’ll burn off under the lights of other eyes, like fog at dawn.
Maybe all I’m saying is this, something that’s occurred to me more than once over the last month: Grief is a shape-shifter. It’s always the same creature under the skin, but its lifespan and colors change over time. One time it’s a storm, flattening you, the next it’s a tsunami and you are the lone swimmer caught unawares and puzzled as to why the tide is coming in so fast. Then it’s back and disguised as the longest, darkest night, the only sound an angry wind outside, worrying the eaves.
So I guess you just hold on, try to stay awake and watchful, and rely on the fact that the sun will come again. That’s all we can do. That’s what I’m doing. My sister would want me to. She loved the sun.