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There’s nothing linear about grief. No pattern. No rhyme. Only an involuntary beginning without an ending.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and the ever-elusive acceptance. They sound like stages, but they aren’t. There’s nothing neat or tidy about them. You don’t get to be done with one and move on to the next. No. You get to flick back and forth. Sometimes, you’re stuck in one stage for weeks. Other times, you get to experience all of them in a single day. A single hour. So, no, there are no stages of grief. Only a shitstorm of it. The shitstorm of grief.
“Yep. That’s right. People who don’t call me Daddy, call me Ben.” Wait. What? Is it me, or did that sound dirty?
“What was she like?” he asks. The question stuns me, partly because I’m not expecting it and partly because it feels like a gift. An opportunity to say her name. An opportunity to bring her back to life for a second.
“Everyone says not to make big decisions in the first couple of years after the loss of a loved one. They all say it. Every therapist, every support group, every article, they all say, ‘Now’s the time for survival, not the time to make changes.’ And I get it, believe me, I get it. I’m sure it’s very good, sensible advice.
“Sometimes you’ve got to take everyone’s well-meaning advice, roll it into a tight ball, and drop-kick into the stratosphere because sometimes the wrong thing is the right thing for you.”
I laugh from my belly. From low down. From the old days. From the before time.
“Jelly.” My voice cracks as I name it. “I need you to hold me. Please.”
“Such a pretty mouth.” He groans as though he’s talking to himself. “Such a sweet boy. Such a pretty boy, with such a sweet mouth.”
“So I thought I’d come over to tell you that if you see me out with other people, be sure to come say hello, okay?”
I feel Ben’s gaze like hot oil on my skin. Thick and decadent. Self-indulgent in the extreme. I like having his eyes on me. I like having his attention focused solely and completely on me. It’s a drug, and I’m addicted.
I’ve loved before, I have, and I loved well. I loved as hard as that version of me could possibly love, but that version thought he had a lifetime to love.
The lesson was hard, so fucking hard, but I learned it well.
I’m not going to love you like I have time. I’m going to love you like every day is our last day. Our first day. Our only day.”
