Do you know what it's like to dread a day on the calendar? Maybe the day you lost your child...or spouse...or parent? To know that in the days leading up the the day you are not the same - your mind preoccupied with what is, once again, a reminder of what you have lost? There is a feeling that you will know well...you will understand. It is that bracing for the memories, that steeling of your resolve to relive what was.
You know, as do I, that time does help...some. You realize it has been days...then weeks...then maybe even months since you cried. Since you despaired. And one day, you realize you are talking about the one you love with a smile on your face - even if your eyes are full of tears. Until you reach the place where it is OK to feel peace. Where, even if you are sad, you feel simple joy at the love you have for a person long gone.
And who knows how long that takes? For me, it has only been three years since I lost Kasey. Less than a year since I lost Isaac. But again I have people telling me that it is time - it is time to be better.
But the peace they want me to feel is elusive yet. I feel it's edges sometimes, soft and ephemeral. It drifts alongside me, alongside my grief - and brushes up against me. It is much less of a presence than pain. Pain is hard and harsh and heavy. Whereas those fleeting moments of peace feel like freedom.
Maybe the truth is that the pain gets worn. Maybe it gets as tired as I do - and lets itself be chipped away. Like so many other things, what if pain gets weathered and smoothed by both time and my own neglect? I do not bolster or encourage it, letting it come and accepting when it crashes in on me. I do not ignore it, either. It simply is.