Grief is rather macabre, undoubtedly peculiar. Certainly it has a pronounced beginning, but has anyone ever quite witnessed its end? Does it, end?
It mimics an unprovoked haunting. A pest, it follows you. A heaviness, it lingers. It hides away in the corner at the end of the hall listening in on your footsteps, waiting to pounce.
Like zephyr, it gently intrudes your senses on a sunny day. Fooling you with its tender caress, the day no longer feels good.
The day no longer belongs to you.
There is an unmarked grave in my back garden. Small. Fragile. Hardly a soul should fit in there and yet within it lies my love. There, beneath the bed of grass, underneath the soil, accompanied by the worms and beetles, lies my cat.
A whole part of my life is buried in the earth and that is the end.
It has been days, months. Etching closer to a year, time has passed and here I am remaining still.
Hope is a dangerous thing. Foolish. Juvenile. My heart insists on harbouring it regardless. Favourable forgetfulness possibly to catch a glimpse of what is no more. Maybe to latch onto the only normal it has ever known.
I wait a beat before opening the door to my room. It is rather futile. My cat is not there. Every time. She never will be again. What a dreadful truth to carry alongside my existence.
I wish for there to be an eventual day where I see her again, unmarred by the harrow of what befell her. I wish for her to wait for me. And just maybe that will finally be the end of it.
Haunting and beautiful as always. Though, in my experience, grief has been something more like glitter. Just when you think you've rid yourself of it, there it is, showing up on clothes or in old drawers, leaving traces where you'd never think to look.
ReplyDeleteSuch a poignant description. You're absolutely right--it's just something that stays with and there is beauty to be seen in that. Thank you xx
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