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Night after night, when I was alive, I had looked at my deepening crow’s-feet with such disdain before I went to bed. I hadn’t realized just how lucky I was to have them. Aging had been marketed all wrong. The world seemed to prioritize a regimented skincare routine over the wonder of getting old.
Nobody on earth has the constitution to metabolize the sudden and terrific loss of unconditional love.
Grief’s iron grip never weakens. You just become accustomed to its hand around your throat, moving forward but never moving on.
You can’t boycott grief, unless you want to boycott happiness with it. You don’t get the meat without the bones.”
But like children’s books and memoirs, we don’t write from the very beginning; one simply chooses a place to start and that becomes the first chapter of the story.
There is no knack to grief. It’s like the sky—it hangs over everything. Sometimes the sun peeks through the clouds, other days it rains, and some days it pours.
But love wasn’t measured by its ending. It was every cup of coffee, broken boiler, empty crisp packet, and train ride. It was every hangover, stubbed toe, high temperature, nasty splinter, and burned tongue. Every eye roll, private joke, and piece of burned toast. Every morning cuddle and blunt pencil. Every kiss good night, every lost key, sore throat, afternoon nap, and sip of tea. Every birthday, hot shower, cold swim, paper cut, chesty cough, mosquito bite, and bee sting. Every lost bookmark, orgasm, funeral, traffic jam, and bite of cake. Every missed flight, snarky comment, haircut, and
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