There are so many things to write anonymity was guaranteed. Life truly is stranger than fiction.
My old journals, full of pains, old and heavy like anchors, need to go into the fire because just their presence weighs me down, (but I’ll shred them because open fires are a climate-crime.)
I asked my mother recently, does grief end? She knows a thing or two about grief. She knows those seven stages are really more like seven thousand.
Some grief is eternal, she said. The loss of a child and the loss of hope.
And all else can be sloughed away like hard skin that forms? Or stitched like a gaping wound? Yes, those wounds sometimes need to be drained, distateful as it is.
We can’t deal with grief that’s too hard or too soft. We can’t survive a grief that festers. Trying to understand it, accept it, helps.
Life can only be understood backwards, but must be lived forwards according to Kierkegaard. Was there ever a truer word uttered?
To see now, my first grief laid bare for inspection, understood, finally.
What relief, that revelation, that all things do actually work together for good and not just for those who love the rigid God of old!
What about the loss of a child?
What about the loss of hope?
Perhaps not all things, perhaps not just yet.
Perhaps…one day that grief will present itself for writerly inspection, and oh, that unweildy second grief will push its way to the surface and force me to write it out, to hell with the consequences.
Perhaps when everyone I know is dead.