The grief of living is not the grief of losing. It is the grief of trying, of being in the middle of something hard with no clear end date, no guarantee, no moment where someone officially tells you it is okay to feel how you feel. It is the grief of a salary already spent. Of a father’s diagnosis that rearranged everything and the relief that he is fine now, which somehow does not cancel the weight of what it took to get there.
Writing loss and grief
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She’ll wrap her arms around you when her inquiry into your well-being causes your spine to collapse. Sensing your discomfort, she will sit beside you quietly, covered in your musty duvet. A movie will watch the two of you until Uber Eats arrives. You will take a few pizza bites for her sake and find that it struggles to push past the permanent lump in your throat. Too numb to protest, you’ll get into the bath she runs you and sit there sobbing while she changes your linen.