Grief
“I’m so sorry, it’ll pass,” they say.
“She’s in a better place,”
“She’ll be born as your daughter someday.”
I nod, trying to do a “I’m sad, but thanks,” smile.
How do I tell them,
That the grief just had a scrumptious three-course meal of me,
Ate a big chunk and left slivers of each of its five stages.
Now I live with bits of denial, anger, bargain, depression and acceptance, living and breathing inside of me.
I nod, wanting to say,
That they’re the ones in denial,
That she’s gone and never coming back,
Not in any form or shape,
And this is their way of coping
With tales of resurrection, of heaven and hell
That people never really leave us.
But I only nod,
And smile that half sad, half ‘grateful for their support’ smile.
I go to another funeral –
All the suppressed demons of the previous one spilling out of me,
And say to the grieving person, “It’ll pass.”
And think, maybe this isn’t denial, it’s just Consoling 101 of the survival guide handbook
That was put in our brain when we were born.
Maybe this isn’t so bad, I think.
Maybe this is just an open secret that everyone knows.
But keep it that way, ssh.
It’ll pass. They’re in a good place.
