Breath

 The other day I didn't feel grief.

It was so strange. It wasn't all day-- it was just for a few minutes, but it happened. I felt, for a moment, whole. 

It has been five and half years since Matt's suicide. That's how long it has taken for time to soften this grief. So yes, it's true that time heals all wounds. But, hah. Think of geologic time, pals. 

I am happy-- I have amazing things in my life. Cool smart talented kids, kind and loving friends-- I have plenty of rice and plenty of books and plenty of herbs and plenty of beet greens and a rattly old piano that's only missing one string but it's in the lowest octave so it's not too much of a nuisance. 

I am happy and I have been breathing grief-oxygen for five years. I am happy and I have been wearing grief skin.

The other day, I was briefly free and clear of it. The sun shone through the clouds and I looked around at my life with pleased surprise. Oh! I'm okay! Wow! 

Today the normal pain of grief has descended again-- that's okay. It's familiar. A warm dark blanket that I can wear around my shoulders. I have learned that there will more more moments like that one: moments that are not inked over with grief. 

Maybe in another five years. 

(If you're in grief, I'm sorry. It will get better. But not any time soon. It's okay)