It was the kind of…
Aubrey Chagnon
It was the kind of grief that muffled everything blissful. Every moment reflected another day without her. Birthdays were no longer to celebrate, but to mourn the deafening loss of my best friend. Our favorite things were now my favorites, and the guilt of enjoying them sickened me. Every muscle, every bone, and every nerve in my body ached in desire to laugh with her. There was nothing I could do to soothe my sorrow, but to lie at her grave repeating a goodbye, delivering a speech to someone who I knew couldn’t hear it. It was the kind of grief that swallowed me whole and refused to let me live.
I move, but somehow I stand still. I am stuck searching for a reason why she left. She left me questioning every “I love you” she ever said because how can someone who loves you leave you with no warning? I dig and dig deeper into her life. The more I investigate, the more I blame myself for every sign I missed. This grief twists into anger as I reminsince in all the hints she gave, but I didn’t catch. My rage boils and overflows with sadness, it whispers her name in every tear. This grief-turned-anger pulls and bends my mind, molding to its every movement.
No matter how many days, weeks, months, or years pass, I am still caught on her. Time is a foreign concept to grief. It tears at you, refusing mercy. 1,049 days, 150 weeks, 34 months, and 2 years have passed, yet I still spend every waking moment remembering her. I visualize her in every English class, sitting beside me as we pour our hearts into a meaningless book report. I hear her voice in every Billy Joel song, harmonizing with the piano. I smell her perfume in every coconut scent. 1,049 days and she still lingers in the most intricate of places.
