After my child died, I moved into a small house facing the mountains, hoping the sharp lines of granite would provide a solid refuge for the days forward. Behind the house, a lake of sorrow murmured and danced under a grove of ancient willow trees. I vowed, like Lot, to never look back, to not drown myself in the longing for what could have been - or, surely - I would turn into a pillar of salt from all the tears written into my bones.
Under the first summer moon, a small grey animal climbed out of the lake and took up residence in my backyard. Pacing back and forth, this tiny ferocious thing gradually wore a path near my back door. Outrage, fear, and an incomprehensible ache rolled through me at the sight of this unwanted visitor, this trespasser! I tried many things to make it leave - loud noises, repellants, even folding myself in a sheet - holding the corners, flapping my arms (like a fool!) trying to chase it away. But it always came back. With time, I relented to its presence, becoming resigned even as summer faded into fall. Most of the time it was silent, but occasionally it would make a huffing sound, and every now and then, it would cry mournfully at the moon, sending waves of sadness down my spine. The days grew shorter and colder, but the small animal continued its pilgrimage by my back door. The path now covered with frost, the landscape bare. How long will it keep this up? Surely, it will leave when the snow arrives, I thought.
So, I waited. I was determined to outlast this trespasser. To have my home to myself again. Winter arrived, and still the small grey animal did not leave. It trudged slowly, sadly through the thickening blankets of white. My fear and outrage started to soften into something I didn’t have a name for yet.
Then a terrible storm blew through - the lake was frozen over, nothing living moved through the blackness. Even the fish were still and silent at the bottom of the windswept lake. A flicker of concern rippled through me - What of the small, grey animal? Surely, it can’t survive this storm. Cautiously, I opened the back door - which took some effort with it being nearly iced shut - and saw a grey mound curled up on my doorstep, unmoving in the brutal cold.
I picked up the ice-crusted mound and brought it inside. For a small animal, it had a surprising heft to it - a rather comfortable weight when held against my chest. I settled into my reading chair next to the fire, and the grey mound settled into the space between my ribs. We both exhaled, closed our eyes, and slept through the long winter.
Today, it is summer again. The lake is rippling with gladness. The trees are covered with glorious greenery, and fish are leaping with wild abandon. My grey companion, now grown tall and strong, together we make our way around this lake, tracing a path through the familiar wilderness, bearing witness to the changing seasons of sorrow and gladness.
Today is no different from all the days since, yet it is different.
I walk alongside my steadfast companion, like I always do. But today, I kneel down,
pressing my face into her scruff, I whisper;
Your name is Grief, and you are mine.
Art by: Lucy Campbell, “Wintering”
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