Grief is an empty bowl, an empty flower vase, emptiness. Grief is the thing I try to get over, go through, set aside, embrace, honor, resist, or even reclaim. Grief grips me. I try to fall into it like a lover, but in grief’s arms, I’m a hormonal teenager. I determined to rule the world, but I can barely drive a car. I lose my keys, my purse, and my glasses. I’m losing my mind.

Grief’s the gift that keeps giving—pennies from heaven, feathers, and hearts in clouds. I’m earning a new language in a foreign land. I thought I’d travelled before. Not here. Here, grief harasses, condemns, and consoles. Consoles? Yes, and recreates itself each day. Grief is an alien growing in my body, as a friend of mine once said about her baby. It was funny then. I look for the humor now.

Grief grows in the womb of my soul. I never wanted to be pregnant with this (like my friend), and like her, I can’t terminate it.

Grief doesn’t die. It’ll transform. I’ve seen it before. I’ve been down this road where I’m dropped off like a hitchhiker in my own life, with no determined destination.

I could take the bus. Or walk, but to where? I can’t just sit here, but I do. I sit on the curb of life and cry until I’m an empty bowl. I say: Ok, God, angels, guides, Mother Mary, Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, and all my loved ones on the other side, fill me.