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Grief is. Grief is holding onto one of her shirts because it has her lingering smell, and each day you bury your face into it praying that the smell hasn’t faded away yet. Grief is going over to her house, entering her closet, and hugging her robe that she has hanging up. Pretending, wishing that it is really her in that robe. Grief is wondering if you can still call it her house. When do I have to switch from “my parent’s house” to “my dad’s house”? Grief is still having her contact with her personalized Bitmoji still pinned to my Favorites. Not knowing what is worse: Having to see her picture every day, taunting me with the fact that I can never call her again or permanently deleting her contact forever. Grief is your dad unintentionally texting you a video from your mom’s phone and, for a few brief, glorious seconds, as you stare at the name on your phone, you think, “Is this it? Is this the moment that defies all logic? The moment the other side finally figures out how to text and call us from the other side?” Only then to come crashing back to reality and realize it isn’t her. You’re crushed. Grief is spending the rest of the day crying because your dad tells you that he is going to disconnect her number soon. The number you absentmindedly would call for years whenever you wanted to talk, needed advice or wanted to share something funny. One of the two numbers you have memorized. How can this number just be erased? How can anyone else have this number? Grief is reading her old Facebook posts for hours. Grief is driving to the Verizon store and then to the Apple store begging them to make sure the texts between the two of you will be saved forever and won’t be accidentally deleted. Grief is torturing yourself by watching old videos of her, so you don’t forget the sound of her voice. You don’t know if you are doing this out of guilt, sadness, nostalgia, or love. You think it might be all of them. Grief is holding onto random notes she scribbled just so you can see her handwriting. Grief is writing to her in a journal every day about what’s happening in our lives and the news, so you feel like she isn’t missing out. Grief is having an overabundance of love to give. Grief is perking up when you also meet someone your age who has lost a parent because you know that person will get it. Grief is many days wanting to stay in bed but then hearing her voice in your head telling me that I will feel a whole lot better if I get up, exercise, and spread joy to other people. Grief is hating that she is right even in death, of course. Grief is wanting to live your life to honor her and make it special for your son and family just like she did for you all. Grief is going on a drive and listening to all the songs that remind you of her and sobbing while you play them. Grief is wanting to get a shower just so you can have a good place to cry alone. Grief is being excited to go to sleep because maybe you’ll see her in your dreams tonight. Grief is waking up to the crushing reality that she is still dead. Every. single. day. Grief is having nothing but so much love for her. And most of all, grief just is.
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