The Work of Grief

The laundry needs folding. Dishes pile in the sink. The shower white is turning pink. Not even the tile can hide its insides. The second pot of coffee is ready. Decaf. You’re older now, you don’t need the adrenaline rush, just the warm liquid filling your belly as you do this work of grief.

I did not choose grief, it chose me. Despite semantics and questions of origin, it is mine: to own, to plumb, to sail and navigate its waters.

Long ago you dove into the wreck, but a part of you drowned and you got scared of your ruins so you vowed never to return. You became still. If you didn’t move, nothing could find you. The nightmares could say suspended. Just dreams. They did not happen to you. They are not your life, your past, your future. Despite your best statue impression they melted your marble with fire, demanded rescue.

There is a girl in there. Still alive, though left for dead. It was easier to play dead than fight, than swim back to the surface. And you who survived, who grew up, who made choices about who to be, what to wear, and how to spend your time, have traveled to the ends of the earth, forward, backward, inside and out of time. You’ve equipped yourself for the rescue mission – the right allies, a firm foundation, the clearheadedness that comes with the sobriety of standing still, of taking things as they come, not staying in the coffin of avoidance. You climbed up out of it and have been inching forward by faith with a lot of help from God. But you can only go so far. 

You will dive into the wreck, deeper than ever before, but you will not emerge this time. She will break through, the girl left behind. The cat who stayed in Schroedinger’s box. The cat that was dead while you were alive, and you will take her place at the bottom of the ocean. You who were never supposed to exist. You’ve always known this day would come. All of your hours, days, and years borrowed. But what is love, if not total sacrifice? You did the best you could with the cards you had. You would do it all again for Stephanie. Your ward, your charge, your assignment, your twin, yourself.

So this is goodbye. To be clear, I am not abandoning you. I will always be here. This is ‘God be with you’ because that’s whose hand you hold when you come back. That’s who will hold you when you can’t move and the waters threaten to drown you. We know how to swim, sweetie. Anything I know how to do, you know how to do. I promise.

I love you, Stephanie. I have always loved you. I believe in you. My strength is your strength, and our house is built upon the rock. The pain hurts. I also know pain. But it won’t kill you. We are safe. We are loved. You got this baby girl. Just be Stephanie. I have walked us this far down the road, and it’s time for me to give you back your key.

So here I come. I’m jumping into the water. Swim up to the light. When you wake up, your nightmare will be over.