“Grief jumps out at you when you’re least expecting it.” — Dominic Cooper
I have been struggling to write about my grief. Instead it is a ball of yarn; my heart the needles. Mending, bending, breaking in two, then three, then four, until the tiny pieces of my broken heart create a mosaic like granules of sand. They creep into my shoes, my socks, my hair. The sand — tiny — comes from something bigger — larger — whole.
Grief gets me unexpectedly. It wraps its arms around my neck and chokes me. When I am watching a movie or reading a line in a book. Sometimes a memory comes from nowhere. I long desperately to call my mom and hear her voice. I want to tell her all about the great things happening in my life. Mostly, I want to tell her I love her and hear the words that have comforted me and provided a compass for nearly four decades: “I love you Megan.”
I listen to her phone message daily, sometimes three to four times a day, pressing 9 after her cheerful, loving voice trails off. The granules of sand gather, bunch around my heart providing direction. North the compass points to Heaven — to her home now.