Grief

Our book club read, Grief Is A Thing With Feathers and I hated it, but now I am reading Lincoln in the Bardo and looking at that first book in a different way.

I was looking for a novel, a story filled with pathos, climax, intrigue. It is a book about grief. Honest, real life, gut wrenching grief that goes on in spite of the fact that the kids need to be clothed and fed and that people mean well, but also tend to jump in and take advantage of things you wish they wouldn't.

I remember telling one of my adult children, "Grief is personal. They say it takes a year, but sometimes it takes five years."

That is true and in my father's case, it took the rest of his life. Literally.

Fifteen years and one marriage after my mother died I asked my dad what he wanted for Christmas. He said he wanted to be with my mother. He got his wish and as much as I miss him, it was hard to not be happy for him.

My mother was not so much a woman as a force. A red haired, green eyed bundle of energy, sprit, jealousy, desire, creativity and love that spilled out of her body like an atomic bomb at times, but also manifested as the safest, softest security blanket ever created.

How do you grieve something like that?