Grief is an old friend who knows I leave the spare key under the mat. I keep meaning to find a safer hiding place (under the mat is where any burglar would check first) but old habits die hard. Today, Grief lets herself in at 5 AM, long before the sun rises or my alarm beckons me into the morning. She sits square on my chest, her usual perch, and rails about the wrongs of a former lover. My fiancé sleeps soundly beside me, and I worry that Grief will wake him, too.
Her hold on my heart is tight, her weight far heavier than it’s been in years. I ask her: why is she here? This is an old pain, one she has long since let go of (though occasionally will knock at when she’s feeling spicy). She doesn’t move, her weight doesn’t lessen, her grip remains vice-like. I ask again: why are you here? Finally, she tells me.
It’s too much. Too much? Out there. I am being called to too many places at once. I feel myself sprouting up everywhere. It’s spreading me so thin. She finally shifts her weight, my breath coming a little easier. This, she says, squeezing the memory of my old flame’s carelessness: it’s easier to return here. I know how to navigate a broken heart, not a breaking world.
Slowly, I wrap my arms around her and ease her off my chest. Lying in this embrace, I do my best to understand her. That is what old friends do, after all. My fiancé stirs. Of course we woke him, how could we not? He kisses us both on the forehead, gets up, makes a pot of coffee. In case you want any, he tells us. For when you’re ready to face the day.
In these dark times, remember to be gentle with yourself.
#poem #poetry #writing
