Grief on a four year anniversary

With time, there is a growing, bittering realization that things will always be different.

With time, the intense pain subsides, and the waves of grief ease and soften. And when a wave knocks you down, your knees and back are sturdier than before - back when you made such a big deal about choppy water, not knowing how bad a rip tide could be.

You learn what to do to not lose your footing so easily.

But then suddenly, you're on your knees again, tears and everything running down your face. You can hardly breathe. The sand burns your eyes and the sun feels too bright to see so you just shut your eyes and pray for a reprieve.

Which comes, thanks to time.

The pain of grief doesn't lessen with time. Perhaps I have learned to make friends with it.

To know when I need to cry alone in my car and cry silently so people don't catch my sadness.

Today I don't feel like writing something sweet about grief, though I usually do that well.

Today it feels more bitter. That everything has changed and will never be like it was again.

I still mourn for my best friend, the parent who always made me feel seen and understood. I'm not sure that is supposed to be replicated or replaced, really.

 Life moves on. The grass needs cutting. Babies cry and must be fed. Apologies must be said after snapping at my husband. The dishwasher must be unloaded.

And I have to stop crying so I can go to the next meeting because I didn't bring any extra mascara.