Grief is like a prison sentence of undetermined length. I keep ticking off the days in chalk, one hundred, two hundred, a season and then another season. Distractions vary–half a short story, a piece of chocolate–and so do disappointments. They are not anything and they are not nothing.
Many things feel like a super mega huge epic deal. They are usually things that are not a super mega huge epic deal. I keep touching the stove to see if it is still hot. Reliably, it is. But I cannot help myself. There has not been anything better to do. Because there is nothing to be done. Reach out, recoil, repeat.
This is what it feels like to give your heart away a thousand times a thousand times a day. Micro pangs, hidden in the plain wrapper of routine. His name still on the cable bill, that book you loaned me in September, her eyebrows shaped like a reminder. Each one a tender spot, a pinprick. Another hash mark on the wall.