Island Living

What is grieving? It is losing. It is being without. It is the longing for what once was and the dread of living without it. Grief is a cycle, a puzzle, a wall, and a prison.

Grief is an island.

Here on the island of grief, we wander alone. On those rare occasions when we do catch another's eyes, we nod knowingly and move on in silence. What use would speaking be? Words echo like stones skipping on the water, then sinking to the silt below.

I have sat on this shore, beneath this tree for hours, days, weeks on end. I watch the river flow around and past, carrying its cargo of life and death. Branches blown loose by a storm. A lost doll. A pair of kayaks paddling silently in the sunshine. There is laughter out there. Tears of Joy. Weddings and births and graduations and all the tiny, daily celebrations that the mainlanders take for granted. I hear them, but they are more like a memory than a moment. Grief segregates me from today. 

There are daily tasks to be done. Floors to sweep. Dishes to wash. Laundry to fold. A stranger I barely recognize moves quietly around my island home, doing the chores that will keep life moving until I am ready to live again.

What is it to grieve? It is cursing in the middle of a half-dialed number. A million "can't wait to tells" or "wish they could sees." It is knowing what it means to die alone and that seven last words are far too many but not nearly enough. It is the pain of meals unshared and hands un-held. The days that feel normal until the sight of a cardinal or the smell of mown grass pulls the rug out and your are digging your nails into the back of your hand to try to hold back the sobs again.

The visits are hardest. Visitations, maybe. You play music or the television so you aren't alone with your thoughts. Impossible sounds wake you in the night, long gone voices calling your name that sound so real you have to reach across the bed to make sure. Dreamed faces that smile and comfort or accuse and blame. The twilight moments before waking when you'd swear that thieves came in the night and emptied your chest. The glare of sunshine on an unfilled chair. 

Here on the island, we grieve things stolen and things wasted. Opportunities missed and regrets unforgotten. We are waiting for redemption. We are waiting for the courage to forgive God.

What is grieving? It is losing. It is being without. It is the seam between light and shadow. Between now and then. Grieving is Holy Saturday all year round. "He descended into Hell" they taught us in church. And so he did. And here we are. On an island. In a river. Under a tree. Waiting for the stone to roll away in the morning.