What grief is.

So it's been a rough week this week. I think there is some disaster in being a poet, a writer, a fixer. I often find my own version of "On This Day a year ago, or three years ago" scrolling through my mind. I suppose that's the beauty of a creative mind and self mastery. A year ago this past week I had one of the worst weeks of my life. I found myself reflecting a lot this week. Last year I never knew that grief had a sound. But it did. It sounded like slammed doors. Like a dropped quarter rolling lonely on the floor looking for the right place to fall. Like sniffles. Like screaming so loud the neighbors knew names. Like echos back and forth through empty rooms. Grief also had a look. It looked like two hooks one coatl. Like leftovers. Like unfinished poems. Like loose jeans. Like dented in couch cushions. Like a boom box with no guts but sounds still blaring out.  Like a vending machine with no lights inside. Like a Christmas tree with no star bright. Like dry marks on glasses lenses. Like empty bowls. Like Kidnapped smiles.

I don't know that I've managed to go from grief to happy in a year but I have learned some new sounds. Like the sound of resilience.  It sounds like a steady stream. A car slow to start on a wintry day. A belly laugh. The end of the kernels popping to become something better or bigger. A whipper willow in the Tennessee night. Words from friends who have returned to hold you up again.  It sounds like the snooze button on the last attempt. And it looks like the solar eclipse. Like 100,001 miles on an odometer. Like a worn in Tshirt that says I chose to live again and break you in. Like an ant on a cabin floor that escapes your shoe. Like crows nests on cheeks. Like half of the worm still hanging on to the hook.

And maybe I don't have it all figured out. But at least I know what a heartbeat sounds like. And what living might look like.

And most of that I owe to many of you. Strangers who became coaches. Acquaintances who became almost power of attorneys. Friends and family who became my pulse. Who hung up pictures of hope on the walls of my heart after I tore them all down. Thank you, and you too.