It’s been a week.
Grief has greeted me in a strange way, you know. I should have been well-prepared, I can hear you say. Yes. But I was not. Your friend was not.
Grief has so many curtains drawn over the helplessness that we court. It punches you in the face. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, just as sleep begins to throttle you. It shamelessly mimics death to remind you of how mortality draws a different tangent on your graph – the faithful heart coughs out whatever oxygen is breathing its last in your fragile body and then slowly, tenderly, a stabbing pain pierces the seven veils between you and who you were, descending to a cascade of “I wish” and you jerk your eyes open. The void in the soul is like a still from a song that has been on repeat since your first sunrise. It’s autumn, summer, spring, winter – the beads beading into the rosary as the meyna chirps outside and says the morning prayer with you, the rain washing over the fresh mud on a new grave – your grave – and the rose petals saying, “Thank you! I miss you, too!” as the moonlight flashes on the sad dance of the hearts below and the stars twinkle over His will.