Grief Is Sneaky

Yesterday morning started off pleasantly. I listened to the squeaking of two small creatures (judging from the sound and volume of the squeaks) travel from the sycamores up the hill toward the road. A squirrel fussed at me while I was feeding the cats; I assume I disturbed its morning rest. By the time I was walking to the truck, birds were filling the air with their morning songs. March flowers were blooming merrily by the driveway, while others scattered around the yard were preparing to bloom.

I did the few things I needed to do on a Friday morning, and after the mailman delivered the day’s mail, I decided to go to Somerset and have Reno’s onion rings for lunch.

It was raining, not heavily but steadily. I didn’t mind. I put on some Travis Tritt music, drove slower than usual because of the rain, and was enjoying the drive. Then grief snuck in on the squeak of a guitar string, wrapped barbed wire around my heart and pulled until the pain was beyond tears. 

Oh, I cried, and cried, and cried. Until the tears dried up and sorrow remained, tiring me to the bone, and haunting my night with eerie dreams of dogs, eyeglasses and strangers.

Eating a quiet meal, listening to random music, writing some poetry and texting a friend while in Reno’s bar eased the grief somewhat. However, the desolation remained and has lingered through today, through another trip to Reno’s bar, through a drive without rain, and through the sun emerging from behind the clouds.

Melancholy is hanging on, relentless in its stubbornness, like patches of melting snow awaiting fresh snowfall. 

Grief doesn’t want to let go of my emotions. It stealthily creeps into a day, like a cat burglar sneaking into a mansion to steal jewels. The jewels grief steals are my moment of cheerfulness, tainting the day with sorrow and tears, leaving me bereft and alone, wishing for a time machine but not sure at what point in my life I want to start over. Perhaps birth?

Grief is sneaky.