The Last Whaler

by Cynthia Reeves

I thought grief would settle into a kind of dull ache. But no. Grief is a thing with talons, seizing its quarry, holding fast.

“Vær stille

“Useful experiments,” I told her. “The Arctic forces plant life to the very limit of its existence.”

There’s a great deal of silence in marriage. Silent hopes, silent longings, silent pain. It’s a wonder any marriage survives such silences.

They’re also heliotropes, a fancy word for plants that turn continually toward the sun.

The sheer number of creatures makes me feel so much less alone.

One thing I’ve discovered is that grief and guilt arrive in waves, lapping at the conscience, advancing and receding. Sometimes these waves seem as powerful as those first currents when shock was the only protection against anguish.

I’ve come to understand that grief and love are intertwined. You can’t love and be spared the pain of loss. That is the unbearable beauty of grief.

I didn’t understand then the nature of grief, that it doesn’t fade away but loops endlessly.

Yes, the world is dangerous and sad and beautiful. There is no equilibrium, no careful balance between joy and sorrow. There is now, there is then, there is whatever may come. And no guarantee that You mete out only what we can endure. Write that down in Your book of remembrance, dear God.