I wish grief were like a hot oven; once turned off, it would cool slowly to the point of bare remembrance.
But grief is not hot. Grief is cold. Grief is like a glacier — colder than cold, and eternal. So grief sits and waits and when a thaw occurs — unexpected and terrifying — great shelves break off into the sea, and the sea is me.
Massive chunks plow my heart. I feel leaden, woozy.
Stop! (sob) Enough! (breathe) I didn’t expect this. It’s been 36 years!
Ah, but that’s exactly why it is so powerful. I’m aging, aged, mortal. I am more like those that I lost than the girl I was then.
I wish grief were like a hot oven. But grief is glacial, and for me it is permanent. The best I can hope is to overlay enough of the present upon it that I don’t feel the cold. Or maybe someday, when I am very old, it will be very small, so small that if a piece breaks off and finds my heart, it will hardly hurt at all.