A letter to Grief

Sweet Grief, 

I shrink from you and welcome you
as a reminder of the beauty that once filled the hole in my heart.
For at the start, dear Grief, you were my only connection to the life I had before
I was torn apart.

On that day, when she went away—never to play again on earthly piano keys—
My heart’s cry became, “Please, Lord, please: peace, release, make the pain cease.”

But it doesn’t stop; instead there’s a change
and a surprising range of forms and shapes you take.
And honestly, your fluidity, the way you rake across and shake my soul,
makes me wish I could toss you to oblivion
and close this hole
for good.

But would I really want you gone?
You know, move on?
Like some books say I should?

What would forgetting be like?
Setting my mind free from the spike of loss
might actually be nice.

But immediately I know the price would slice away too much of my life.
I am the wife, mama, sister, friend I am because of her;
every truth would start to blur without the anchor of her hand in writing my story:

God’s glory in the face of pain would dim for me if I pushed you away
just to allay this season of aching.

So with quaking spirit, I accept it: here we are.
You pound on my scar, and yet—oh Grief—I will not deny your place.

For you stay
because she lived with grace.