How Grief Spends The Day With Me (Revisited)

We all want to be seen, even Grief. Especially Grief.

Pine Siskin perched in my Dogwood Tree — photo by Author

Grief stands beside me while I light a candle. She watches my gaze shift from the flame to the window so I can watch the birds in my yard. Lighting the candle is one of the small acts of remembrance that I do for my daughter Ana, who died nearly six years ago in March.

“Don’t forget to blow it out this time,” Grief reminds me. “You should stop burning candles. You’ll forget again. You’ll burn the house down.”

I ignore the disapproval (judgement), in her voice. She knows what the candles mean to me, but she can’t help herself. Grief always wants to take things away.

“Stop it,” I say. She evaporates, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I go through my morning tasks — checking email, responding to clients, scheduling work. In a moment of weakness, I drop into Facebook and find myself scrolling through memories of this date — 2 years ago, 4 years ago, 13 years ago.

I pause on a photo from 2010. The girls were 9 and 6. It’s a terrible shot — hastily snapped with (I imagine) very cold fingers.