Grief comes to me at times when I most expect it to, at the most obvious times. The first anniversary of her passing. Or at night, when I try to silence all the noise from the day, all the noice that resonates in my head.
I don't expect it to come to me, but it does when a stranger says her name. But who expects that? A stranger. It came to me when I received mail from her brokerage firm addressed,"Custodian of..." I thought it strange that it came to me when I realized my vintage, beaded, Carmen Marc Valvo gown was stolen. I cried for both losses, unequal as they were.
But grief never comes to me properly. Not fully. Just in little annoying spurts. I wish it would stop sneaking up on me to tap me on the shoulder, only to disappear when I turn around. Then I'm left with this nagging feeling, it's there, just within arm's reach. And it's going to hit me hard and I can't brace myself, suck in my gut, or prepare in any way for a hit.
I'm going out, to be with friends. I'll hear it again, I'm sure of it, "You seem happy." Usually, I detect a mix of surprise and relief. Don't worry, I'm not going to fall apart in front of you. Because grief just doesn't come to me properly anymore.