There are two divergent parts of me that are coping with my grief.
One longs to run.
Erase any and all memories of the tragic loss we’ve suffered and forget that I ever existed within the walls of the home addiction built.
No…the walls love built.
The walls addiction infected.
Like black mold seeping into the foundation, unnoticed until it was too late.
I want to erase the grief, but it clings to me like grease mixed with soot. I scrape and scrub but it spreads under the pressure of my longing to remove it.
“Out damned spot!”
I bear no guilt in this matter, it’s not my fault that he died. But try explaining that to “the grieving one”. That’s what I call her, the part of me that continuously grieves my husband.
She just wants to run and forget it ever happened.
But I cannot ignore “the hopeful one”. The ever-longing hopeless romantic that it seems was born into me. The one that knows that love is always worth it and accepts that pain and death are a beautifully bitter part of life.
She pushes me to lean into the grief. To surrender to the tidal wave and succumb to my fear that I’ll die from the weight of it all.
