Some days, grief sits pretty. Like a beloved find at your favorite bargain place. Worth the cost, not plagued by buyer’s remorse. You stare. The memories surrounding it, there on the mantel. That day, those days you ran with her through stranger’s backyards, crunching blades of grass blown back and forth by the summer wind. Lights turning on the first floor of nearby houses by families affected by rebellious teenagers using their private trampolines. You smile for the late afternoons where both of your eyes finally jolted awake. They spread across your face as your bellies echo laughter from whatever the hell happened the night before.
And other days, grief sits long. You remember the feeling; you know the stairwell into the darkness. There is a landing above, facing a window. But everything is dark. You know the lights will never turn on and you know you will not find the switch. You grab the wall to guide your way through the darkness, but it does not help. Nothing helps. You step onto the landing, finally. A small breath escapes your tired mouth. You have a hallway to walk through now. You are aware of your surroundings. But they are painful. They are unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but you have been here a million times in the last few months.
This is month 10. A whirlwind of cherished mantelpieces and dark stairwells on a blackout night. This is month 1 all over again. Month 2 and month 3 and so on. Since she has been gone, you have felt guilty of smiling of laughing. Painfully aware of life’s mortality. You look at the world with a different perspective. In some ways, you have changed into a better person. In other ways, you have emphasized your shortcomings. And you would give it all back—every triumph, every belly laugh. For months before the counting of months. But you cannot rewind.
And so we climb the staircase.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.