From the depths of my grief, I can only imagine yours. Lives so deeply entwined suddenly ripped asunder. I sleepwalk through my days, alternately numb and racked with pain. But I create for myself small joys, like fresh flowers in my bathroom. A small cap worn rakishly askew on my head.
So I think it is with you.
I make the drinks you post the recipes for and listen to the music you mention. I read “Consolations.” Then I cry as friends hold me in their arms.
So I hope it is with you.
I wear a bright color on my toenails – one I would NEVER would have chosen “before” – so that I smile when I catch a glimpse of them. I make a list of things that make me happy and choose one whenever I grow too apathetic, too overflowing with sadness.
So I trust it is with you.
I remind myself of the story of the man who has fallen into a deep hole. Someone hears his cries for help and jumps in. “What have you done? Now we’re both down here.” “Yes,” says the second man. “But I’ve been here before and I know the way out.” I’ve been deep in grief before, I remind myself. And I know the way out. It is long and filled with intense suffering. But through is the way out. Through is the way out.