Now to then and back again.

Grief is heavy

If it slows your steps at times
It is  to remember who you lost

Without getting lost yourself.

Three years ago today, my brother Bill died.   
In the still fog of the days that followed, I wrote this  about grief

June 14, 2013

"I made you laugh. I LOVE when that happened." --Bill Cook (1960-2013)

Grief is a boulder in the middle of the room.

It can't be budged.

If you push it away, it won't yield

When you aren't watching where you walk, you fall over it

And it hurts

You can't pretend it isn't there

You can move the furniture to walk around it

But it still blocks your view of something

You can try and live in another room altogether

But you have to pass by it eventually to go from now to then and back again

Grief is like a boulder in the middle of the room

It doesn't belong there

You don't want it there

You throw a blanket over it

It feels too big for the room

Too big for your life

You cry

And finally, grief speaks

It says: I might be in your way, but I used to live in your heart

I am your memories

I am your loss
But I am what you cherished for a long time

I am trying to find a way back in

But you won't open it

You walk around me

You avoid me

Open your heart

And I will live there again

You sit next to the grief boulder

Because you understand

You need to fill that space in your heart

To feel whole again.

So you make a deal

You will honor grief

And grief will help you heal.

You let it in.

It feels heavy, hard to carry

But your view is clear

Your travel is unobstructed

from now to then and back again

Without that boulder in the way.