She couldn’t remember how she got here.  For her each day bled into the next, each and every moment the same as those before. Grief followed her as a cloud filled with the heaviest of raindrops, one on top of the other, readying themselves to pour onto the unwitting souls wandering through time and space. Colors muted leaving shades of gray, hints of black.


   She wore heaviness as a robe and slippers that had been dipped in cement, its burden weighing on her with every attempted step and with each feigned breath.  Sadness and anger, emptiness and loss were as close to her as the Holy Ghost claimed to be, its presence as veiled as the shadows bearing her company. Every part of her hurt, as though her body had been wrapped up tight with the barbed wire of an electric fence and some invisible force had pulled the switch. Her eyes, at first, overflowed with the tears that only someone fellowshipping with sorrow would know but now knew only dryness, like the dry heat of a desert afternoon. 


 Did she enjoy the company of Grief and its counterparts? Did the feeling of cutting herself on the broken edges of her heart lift her spirit and make her cry out, “I’m free”? Was the sharp pain that came with every inhale and exhale something she looked forward to with great anticipation? I would dare say no on all counts.  Yet she couldn’t bring herself to part company with these less than welcome visitors. She couldn’t explain exactly what it was that kept her hanging on so tightly. Perhaps it was their nonjudgmental presence which allowed her to scream to the depths of her own private hell. Perhaps it was their faithfulness, their dedication, the fact that after the dust had settled and everyone else had gone their way, after everything else had been said and done Grief and its many siblings remained true to their loyalty and never left her side in the days following the Tuesday evening when her person quietly exchanged this life for the next. 


      “If you need anything, let me know.”

      “He’s in a much better place now.”

      “At least his suffering is over.”

      “He would want you to move on!”

      “Well, you know, he’s not grieving for you!”


       And the wheels on the bus went round and round…


    How many times did she find herself squeezing her eyes shut with her hands over her ears, attempting to shut out the barrage of seemingly well meaning but back handed cliches and maxims spoken by people who, she tried to tell herself, really did mean well and wanted to take away her pain but were helpless to do so and so, rather than saying or doing nothing at all, chose to err on the side of saying something that in the end would leave them with egg on their face and their foot in their mouth? How often did she find herself alone in the face of radio silence after being countlessly reassured so-and-so was just a phone call away? How often did this add to the continuous layers of loneliness and isolation she was already drowning in?


     She couldn’t remember how she found her way through the darkness.  She had no idea how or when she began to exchange black-and-white vision for images of color and radiance. She remembered the fog and fumbling her way through its obscurity. She remembered the grey overcast and the chill that seemed to hang forever in the sky above her like a million scattered little clouds. She recalled the grey becoming nearly black, all consuming, overwhelming. She could still feel the rain pelting her without mercy, each drop hitting with a thump! A thud! With bullet like precision. She couldn’t begin to tell you when the rain stopped or when the clouds parted. She had no memory of the precise moment when the fog began to lift and streams of sunlight poured down upon her. She couldn’t recall any of it and if you were to ask her now I’m most confident she still would not be able to find words adequate enough to articulate it all completely.


     Was it the behest of her children, specifically her youngest son who, at the still tender age of 15 saw his mother drowning and dug deep in the recesses of his consciousness to throw her a lifeline? Was it the quiet encouragement of friends who saw her suffering and, rather than make a futile attempt to “fix” the situation, walked beside her, giving her their eyes until her eyes were clear enough to find their way? Could it have been the quiet faith of those who knew her best, whose prayers carried her when her strength failed? Perhaps the work of her hands kept her mind strong and her spirit rising. Even still it may have been each and every one of these things, all of it coming together as a beautiful piece in her life’s tapestry. 


       No, she couldn’t remember how she got here. She may never call to mind just exactly what it was that brought her out of the dark. This she knows for certain; she will never go back…