Grief
Grief, is such hard work. It empties us out and what rushes back inside is cold and
dark and it clings like frost on a window. The task of pushing the darkness out is daunting. Sometimes
it feels never-ending.
Grief comes to us for many reasons, usually for some manner
of loss. The loss of a loved one is especially hard.
In January I am reminded of my own loss and the work of
grieving. I think of those whose
grief is fresh and the hard work they have before of them.
Much like dawn seeps in to brighten the blackness of night, know
that the light returns.
January
January, sets perched like a crow
on the cusp of the year just passed, and the new one. The hope of spring is
just a flicker. Not a bright enough light to push back the darkness, the cold.
I hunker down, wishing it away,
thinking it would be nice to sleep, like the bears, until it passes. But life
must be lived in January. It can’t be wished away or rushed through. January
insists on taking its days, deserving them like every other month. Slowly it
counts through the days, its first, its teens, its final day.
January is the month of my birth,
but I am not its favorite child. It does not gift me with a lighter heart or a
restful night. It questions the need for celebration in its shadows, preferring
its own quiet reflection.
On one January day, our daughter,
born in the happy month of April, was swallowed by the darkness. In a
heartbeat we learned to count January’s long days in a new cadence.
On the twelfth day of January the
call came; a truck, a red light, come to the hospital.
On the twenty-sixth day of
January we heard; too much damage, let her go, tell her goodbye.
On the
Twenty-seventh day of January, she died.
On the thirtieth day of January
we buried her, in the indifferent January ground.
On the thirty-first day of
January we began learning how to live without her light in our lives.
On every day, of every month that
followed we learned those lessons. The hardest ones come in January and
they are particularly brutal. Like a teacher’s ruler smacking on knuckles they
demand attention, they demand review.
January is the month the wounds
reopen. Exposed to the frigid air they are examined, poked and prodded. Fresh
blood is pushed through them to cleanse the putrefaction but they are still
tender. Wanting nothing more than to heal in the quietness.
I will be happy when January is
spent, when it will begrudgingly give the count over to February. In
subtle tones the cadence will change. The other kinder months will follow in
their turns. These months will let me find the quiet, the peace and
sometimes the joy of living. I can treasure the smile of a granddaughter,
relish the warm hug of a loved one, and find the beauty in a flower or
the enthrallment of a good book. January's grasp is weakening. Returning
to its place in line.
May you
find brightness in your life this year.
Diana,
for the Poplar Grove Muse
