Grief

[I wrote this piece a couple classes ago, and I really like it. It felt like it was one that poured right out of my gut, and even when I re-read it, it really hits me, because it describes a feeling that feels so true and heartbreaking for me.]

I’m not sure why I keep seeing herons this summer, 

But I do know they feel important, like stars in the dark of my unknown direction right now, telling me I’m at the right place. 

I’m not sure why I chose the cottonwood tree to the left of our stairs to be the spot that holds my grandfather’s spirit for me, 

But I do know I love having him with me, and I know I see his booming laugh and smile each time I look at it. 

And I’m not sure what it means that he died on his birthday—a perfect circle—birth day to death day, 90 years later, 

But I do know I have his discipline and want to finish every challenge I start, and I’m beginning to open my heart like him, too. 

I’m not sure why it’s so hard for me to get up from every place I am, 

But I do know that each time I sit down along the creek or the river, I never feel ready to get up again; I have to tear myself away every time. 

And at the end of every season, I’m heartbroken, not ready for it to end—even though in the previous season, I didn’t want this one to start. 

And I’m not sure if that’s because each leaving is a type of death, and a deep part of me loves this existence so much that with each leaving, it cries. 

But I do know that this morning, when I didn’t want to get out of bed, I let myself linger a couple minutes longer:

Letting the greens of the grass and the spruces outside our eastern window seep a bit more into my eyes, 

Letting the blue of the sky wake me,

Letting the robins’ calling ring extra long in my ears,

Letting the weight of the duvet sink into me,

Letting Pepper’s fur soften against my fingers, 

Letting it all last a little bit longer, as I shut my eyes again and whispered, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”