Grief — I saw the face behind the Monster

If LOVE is a beautiful child, then who is Grief?

Maybe it’s the child after they grew up — after they became a boring one, bitter and sorrowful, reeking of unfulfilled dreams & wasted potential.

You rooted for the Child. Let him get close to you, without thinking about the inevitable day the child will turn old and disappear leaving nothing but a hole inside your heart.

The Child teaches you lessons, gives you connection, takes your hand and it’s there for you. To hug you, to raise you, to nurture you and caress you, teach you about life and crack a joke when you need to hear one.

The child is pure. Forgiving. It’s honest and raw, it’s nothing but joy and belonging.

It’s amazing and a rare feeling — to be so connected (in thoughts and action) with someone, to know them and know they know you.

It’s a blessing actually since few people can feel that in their lifetime. There’s love that is born, there are people you have to love because they’re your blood…and then there are the people whom you know and love on a deeper level.

You were (are) one of them.

Those who you love belong to you and you belong to those who love you — say the Hebrew.

Not only did we belong — we were parts of the same Soul.

And it showed in the way in which we talked — didn’t need words, since we were on the same frequency.

It showed in our laughs, so raw and sincere, the whole house could hear us — but weren’t allowed inside our little world, with our inside jokes and inside stories.

It showed in how our voices went up a pitch when we talked to each other and in the insatiable way I would devour all your stories and your anecdotes and your pieces of advice.

It showed in the way you’d hug me and hold me tight, as if to whisper: you are loved, you are loved, you are loved. And in the way I melted inside those hugs, knowing you are my shelter and you are my home and you are love.

And I dialed your number. And it rung…and it rung…and it rung.

Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash

But the day came, the Child was no longer LOVE, it turned into the old geezer and it became the Grief that brought upon the ultimate heartbreak, the anger and the pain, the pain, the pain — so, so much pain.

Indescribable, unfathomable, unbearing even.

The type of pain that rips you apart, shatters you into a billion pieces, throws you to the wolves, and leaves you undone.

The type of pain which you feel everywhere — in the air, in the lungs, in the smells, in the food, in the sea, in the sky, in the church, in the bus, in the house, in the music, in the movies, in the night.

(have you ever tasted ash and smelled rotten fish when presented your favorite food? I did)

This pain is such a bitch at first, it just knocks you down. Without warning. It pushes you against the wall, leaves you defenseless and then it just laughs in your face.

“You thought this was all? There’s a lot more where that came from. And you will. Feel. All. Of. It.”

The pain plays with you for a while and then leaves. It gives you space for a couple of minutes, hours, days, weeks — then it just strikes again, harder, faster, stronger.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It keeps going on and on and on and you can’t take it anymore. But you carry on.

And no one picked up the call.

Until the day when you look the pain in the eyes. And you see the face behind the Monster that’s been tormenting you.

And you see the Child — the LOVE is still there. The pain is really the LOVE so you smile at the heartbreak.

You know that space in your heart will never be whole again.

And you know it’s ok because it held someone so special, so spectacular, so amazing…and you loved that someone so, so, so much.

And the pain will still be there, but it will be a warm pain, a pain that reminds you of the LOVE. And you enjoy feeling the pain — because it honors something great.

And suddenly, the pain has its own voice. And you start telling his story, the story of LOVE and belonging, the story of family and acceptance, the story of power, the hero’s journey, and the wise man’s story.

And you tell the story again and again. And you do him justice. And you think of him. And you remember his words. His voice. His smile. His life-lessons.

And you carry him in your heart — in the air, in the lungs, in the smells, in the food, in the sea, in the sky, in the church, in the bus, in the house, in the music, in the movies, in the night.

And the pain is still there, but it’s not a Monster anymore. Now it’s a token, the price you pay for loving someone so deeply, so truly, with all your heart and your soul.

And the void is still there, inside the heart and you notice it and you nurture it and you give thanks and sing songs of gratitude for having and holding this love.

And you grieve and you live and you feel the pain and feel the love and you smile while you cry and you cry while you laugh, because what else is there?

Photo by Jana Sabeth on Unsplash

Tomorrow would’ve been your birthday, but I know better than to call. You are gone and will never come back — but somehow you are still here and will never leave my side.

I can’t call, but I can write and I will write until my fingers burn and I will love you and cherish you and be grateful for you and pity the men who didn’t knew you — did they miss out, or what?

This is for you, old man.

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the.wanna___

the.wanna___

Trying to write myself into existence