Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes, it possesses you, cemented into each breath you take, embedding into your cells, becoming a part of your genetic code.

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes, it possesses you, cemented into each breath you take, embedding into your cells, becoming a part of your genetic code. Tainting the memories of the person you love, who you now can’t think about without a relentless panging in your heart. It was odd at first, grieving someone that I already knew was so far removed from me before they were gone. But other times it’s comforting. Like the smell of the perfume she’d loved that lingers when she’s not there. Or the times I dream of her stroking my hair and humming “My Funny Valentine”, the song she somehow convinced my father to name me after. Grief hurts because it is a constant reminder that things are not going to remain the way they once were, no matter how badly you want them to. My mother always told me she’d rather be celebrated than sobbed over. Like she would prefer a party over the mourning of her. That in fact, did not happen. The day of her funeral was a blur. There were aunts and uncles and cousins I didn’t know I’d had. They’d all offered stories, like I would want to hear stories about her that I hadn’t known before. “I remember when your mom and I went on that road trip to the Grand Canyon,” my aunt said, her voice wavering. “She was amazing, just like you, Valentine. She’d stand at the edge of the cliff, wind whipping through her hair, and she’d stay there for hours just basking in the beauty of it all.” My Uncle Tony interjected, his words low as he hid behind a curtain of overgrown stringy hair. “And remember the time she cooked that disastrous Thanksgiving dinner? We were all filled with laughter more than food. Mainly because the food was hardly edible.” It wasn’t necessarily the fact that they were talking about her, it was the fact that they kept using the past tense. Like the fact that her heart was no longer distributing blood throughout her body and that her lungs weren’t full of oxygen reduced her into a thing that had existed. And even then, with the feeling of both anger and constant longing for a person who was no longer there, I still remember the way she sat with me on the porch swing, her fingers braiding my hair as she listened about my day, and between the gaps, she’d always ask, “What’s on your mind now, my Valentine?”  I could also remember the days she sat in her office for hours on end. When I was younger, I would occasionally convince her to play outside with me, help me ride my bike. I remember those days the most. The way her laughter filled the air as we pedaled around the neighborhood, the warmth of her hand guiding me until I could balance on my own. As the years went by, She slipped through my fingers like wisps of smoke. There were moments when I could almost feel her beside me, her comforting presence wrapping around me like a warm blanket, in grocery stores, in the restaurants she used to love frequenting, in the books she used to read to lull me to sleep. Sometimes grief is the one thing we try to avoid, but we so desperately need to let it hold us, comfort us, and remind us of the person we always needed, and now they become a part of us.

Process

I was inspired by the line between life and death. How one person can have such a great impact on your life. The idea of that made me want to write a piece solely about grief. I wanted to especially capture the way descriptions and figurative language can make words flow together like a symphony.