Grief

Grief:

Deep sorrow,
especially the kind caused by death.

It cuts like a serrated knife

that doesn’t care how much pain it causes
or how much you bleed.

It’s a sorrow only the one feeling it

can truly endure.

Grief doesn’t care about time.

The world keeps moving
in its monotonous grace—
but for the grieving,
the world stops.

It’s quiet.
Defunct.
Still.

Nothing matters except the pain.

It torments the soul.
Makes us irrational,
illogical.

Our thoughts race—
or they vanish completely.

And yet…
we feel.

The ache never fully leaves.
Even for a pet.

I once asked Dr. Wojo
why losing a pet hurts so much.
He said:
because they are short years.

I would add:
they are loyal,
and they love without condition.

I’ve had to sit back and watch—
three human beings,
a tiny family,
all loving a dog.

As my dad would have said:
Why are you crying over a damned ol’ dog?

But I cried harder over my cat
than when my dad died.

Her death, years ago,
still hurts more than my dad leaving.

She knew my secrets.
Slept on my pillow.
Woke me with the tickle of her paw.

But that’s another story.

Today—

I am an outsider looking in.

Trying to explain to a three-year-old
why his best friend, Maggie,
won’t be sleeping beside him tonight.

Watching through my window
as my daughter weeps—
not just tears,
but that deep,
shuddering kind of sorrow.

Seeing her dog, Waylon,
look at her with eyes
that seem to understand.

And I think he does—
because he feels.

Watching my son-in-law,
sitting with his back to a tree,
holding his son’s best friend in his arms.

And me—with an inescapable dread.

Because this isn’t over.
It’s just the beginning.

Grief is a loop.
A never-ending replay.

Then I’m washing dishes,
looking into the field where Maggie ran,
and I feel… nothing.

Time stops for me too.

Because I am trying to carry the grief
of three people on my shoulders,
praying to God to make it stop.

I can’t save them
from the irreconcilable dread they feel.

And that—
is what hurts me.

The spiritual gift
I never asked for: empathy.

My grief goes out,
their pain comes in,
and I swallow it whole.

It sits there
until I can do something with it.

I can’t pray it away.
It lingers.
It spoils.
Until it works its way out.

Until then—
I am melancholy.

This is the beginning
of quiet days ahead.

That is how I process:
alone.
Silence.
Solitude.

Yesterday,
Jack wanted a firetruck at the dollar store.
I didn’t get it for him.

But between asking about Maggie
and the firetruck,
I took him this morning.

Four dollar stores later,
the fifth had it.

It was hot.
I was tired from not sleeping.
My head was pounding.

The sunlight—
like a flashlight
burning into my eyes.

I needed to get home
before I got sick.

If I had,
I’d have had to drive myself
to the ER.

Jack sang the whole way home,
and I drove—
trying not to think about my head.

I made it.
Took medicine.
Laid down.
Felt better.

Stayed out of the heat.

My house is wrecked,
needs cleaning.

I don’t care.
Not today.

Time is slow.

To you reading this—
it’s just a story.

You may leave a prayer,
or a heart,
and we appreciate that immensely.

But you’ll never understand—
just as we’ll never understand
your pain.