I find it’s an unconscionable thought, death, of that loved one. I must have felt this before but somehow, I’d forgotten it, that unavoidable sense that death is beyond mine or anyone’s control, that I must learn somehow to say goodbye.
Saying goodbye involves so much pain, and it’s all because of love.
Nothing prepares us for this reality, even if we all know we’ll all die, and that we’ll have to say goodbye to those we’ve always known we’ll lose. But when it comes time, it’s all too surreal.
There isn’t must that can be said or that needs to be said. Words won’t make a difference. I’ve found I’d rather people not make a fuss, let me breathe and grieve in my own time and in my own way, just like everyone must have the sanctity to face their own sorrow and the fact that time cannot be rewound.
That’s the thing about loss. I want to go back in time to re-enjoy times when things were “normal,” where there were different perhaps more mundane concerns.
But loss is loss. It’s loss. It’s a very concrete concept. Too concrete. But somehow through loss, as we mediate our grief, as we face that which we cannot change, we’re somehow transformed into more empathic beings.
So many previously innocuous things change in loss, but those innocuous things leave large gaping holes that are noticed ten miles away.
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