3 | A Note on Grief

Write What You Know, Skeleton

In the time it took for the westerly winds to shift east, cardinals evaded my sight. The numbers didn’t dwindle or taper gently like they would as the cool air of fall bleeds into the thinning edges of summer, the cardinals avoided me altogether, a signal - their watch over me had completed and the crows honored their rotation. Grief dug its heels in and situated itself firmly, a ball attached to the back of my skull affixed with a chain, latent yet heavy, offering limited tastes of relief.

What do we do with that grief?

Do we sit with the ball, tug on the chain and sincerely hope that its rusted layers continue on in their process of disintegration? Pray with each pull, each effort to reach maximum tautness, that either a singular link or the connection itself snaps? What are the odds? The probability of that particular event, a spectacular cosmic collapse, in a sea of equal probabilities?

Or do we ignore it? Can we? Is it meant to be some didactic emotion? Seems cruel to have the capacity for such a feeling. Do we blame god for the events that preface deeply felt pain? Or just for the emotions, perhaps the emotional literacy?

How can I apply blame to something that has never been there for me?

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Write What You Know, Skeleton is a planned serialized work of hybrid fiction taking personal notes & experiences, blending them into a larger fictional narrative.

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