if grief sat across from me

I’d slap it. 

I would raise my hand, lean over, and strike it down. Because grief is a cycle, and apparently, I’ve reached anger. Denial cost me nothing but heartbreak and tears, bargaining made a fool of me, depression feels like acceptance, and acceptance means letting go. And so, anger feels like home; home in the way I still remember and feel, in the way I can pretend my emotions are directed to someone who’s still real.

Grief as a concept disgusts me; I wouldn’t be able to tolerate it if it dared to sit in front of me. The loss it signifies—the futility of plans made that would never come to fruition. The days we lost daydreaming of trips we would never pack for, competitions we would never prepare for, and of stupid arguments we would never cry over again. 

I would look at grief and feel indignant and infuriated because death was never supposed to affect me this early. I was meant to have lived more years before being burdened by the realities of mortal life, taking those I cherished. My biggest concern should’ve been something as mundane as my viva schedule, not whether I’d want to wake up the next day or stay a little while longer in bed, in my dreams where nothing had gone wrong yet. 

…

Bile lingers at the back of my throat like an old comrade or a haunting flame, either one of two, and maybe both. Rooted in the ever-present anxiety that had dug its claws into the flesh of my throat, in the barbed guilt that slowly festered in my heart. 

For some unspoken reason, a truth I have yet to admit even to myself, this grief is a discomfort lurking under my epidermis, an itch I will away by petulant ignorance. It watches me and stalks me, and I ask, how could I ever bear to sit across from it?  I write, moisture clinging to the raw whites of my eyes, that this is not as grand an ordeal as I’m making it seem, but it follows me like the ghost I see every time my brain is left alone in its cage. Because for me, grief once had a face. 

…

But for all my grievances and pity parties, I don’t truly hate Grief. If I sat before it, I would muster up the courage and lift my head once more, pulling away the hands I had dug into my hair. I’d wilt—like a sunflower under a vast sky with no sun, like the threadbare earrings I still wear, desperate and clinging to something that would never fill my embrace ever again.

And I’d find myself drained of anger, a weak sputtering flame on the verge of death, because when I look to Grief, I’d only see my happiest memory staring back at me, mutilated and bastardized by guilt and circumstance.

Because when I look at Grief across from me, I’d only see the warm, brown eyes that I knew so well. 

I tell myself I don’t deserve to be mad, under the scrutiny of Grief’s gaze, for I see someone I had failed. But to think in such a manner does even more harm than my self-pity. Grief did not deserve to be remembered in memoriam; Grief deserved to be celebrated with life. I would step around the line we’d drawn in the sand and wrap my arms around Grief once more, to make up for the last time I couldn’t, and I’d cry. My lips that once knew Grief’s name, now only knew blubbering apologies and too-late confessions. And I would think to myself, how could I ever be angry?

Because what more is Grief if not for love lost? What more is he if not a hollowed-out home in my heart?