I’m in a rut. Every time I begin typing, I find myself pressing backspace. I’d say that it will pass, but this has been happening all week.
I suppose I could blame Netflix. Or my six-day work week. Or the end of the school year. Doctor’s appointments. Strep throat for my firstborn. The weather.
But really, I’m just not myself.
I want to write what I want to write, and none of it will come out in the poignant pattern that I hope for. All of it sounds pretentious and dreary and like I wrote it from the depths of a bottle of gin.
I scribbled something down this morning. It isn’t very well-phrased, but I received some really unfortunate news yesterday, and it’s in direct response to that. So, without any frills or expectations, this is for a friend…
Some of us cannot understand loss. Loss is something we are never taught to understand. To handle. To know.
There are never the right words. There are no words. Not when there is loss.
Someone you have known to always be in their space, occupying their silhouette in the universe, is suddenly absent. Removed. Gone. Just, gone.
All of their things are still here. Their car and their clothes. Their house with all of it’s rooms. Their shoes no one will ever fill as well as they did.
Their memory is bright, but the source is no longer.
And what are we to do with the space they have left? What words can be spoken? What memories stirred? Do we sidestep out of reverence? What do we do with all of this empty space? The hole?
Loss is such a heavy load.
And when it’s yours, it’s yours. There is no one to carry it but you.
And so, it is carried. And the rest…the rest is learning how to walk with the new weight in your arms.