Only If You're Lucky

by Stacy Willingham

That’s the beauty of fiction, of words: when your life becomes too boring, too bland, too hard or depressing or chaotic or calm, they allow you to simply float away and inhabit another, try it on for size.

ever since I lost Eliza, every time I’ve tried to flip open the pages of an old favorite, immerse myself in something mindless, the words won’t melt in my mind the way they used to, warm and smooth like freshly whipped butter. Instead, every sentence feels clunky, hard, taunting me like they’re written in some foreign tongue, completely illegible.

I guess that’s the thing about grief, loss: it changes everything, not just you. Colors are duller, foods are blander. The words don’t sing like they used to.

I always thought of Eliza’s family as flawless, and I guess that’s why I spent so much time there. It was like I hoped proximity alone could get some of whatever they had to rub off on me like a barbed hitchhiker sticking to my clothes, traveling back with me before planting itself in our home. Their love like an invasive species that could take over us all.