Grief has a way of blindsiding you, of stepping into your day and turning it upside down; of showing up on your doorstep unannounced, rapping at the door, tapping, insistently until you let it inside, and when you do, it has a way of unleashing itself, of throwing itself onto you and not letting go.
This is how it has felt all month to me and today. An ordinary day, an April 30th, 2008 ordinary day. The three kids are tucked into bed, a cake is in the oven, the dogs are asleep on the floor and there behind the door I have refused to open all day is my grief, rapping harder and harder, pretending to be patient, pretending to be waiting for me as if it's not just going to break the door down and descend on me.
And here I am hiding, amongst my things, hiding behind a screen, in a room filled with papers and books, and dust. Hiding and hoping that eventually the grief will turn around and leave thinking everyone has gone away. But we haven't have we? Here we are, waiting to open the door, hoping at any moment instead of the grief, it will be Grace knocking on the door, running inside at the end of a day, an ordinary day where she might have played with friends, where she might have made a mud cake, climbed over sleeping dogs only to knock after her friend's mother has brought her home, only to say, "Here I am mommy, don't cry, here I am."
Only to say, "It's me, and I will grow up and be your daughter and find a love in my life and have children and you can see them and hold them and love them and they will have cousins and I will still have one sister and two brothers and the four of us, we will all be here with you and I will hold your hand when it's your turn to be held and I will still be here and I will still be here."
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