If my grief could talk, I think he would tell me how far he has walked beside me, and for how long he has been pushed to the side. If my grief could talk, I think he would tell me how he longed to know me and be known. He would mumble and stumble over his words, ready to converse, and yet taken by surprise that there was finally opportunity to do so. 

As a child, I had learned to push him aside quickly. If my closet could not hold him with all the other things, he was forced to walk behind me – carrying the weight of each loss and death in their totality. 

As a teenager, I would hide under deceivingly warm blankets and duvets gifted to me by depression. There I would nestle into the comforting arms of sleep and numbness, as grief persistently knocked at my door. He’d cry that he was still here, and I would ask numbness to cover my ears and block out the sound.

As a young adult, I would flirt with grief. Sometimes I would only crack open the door for him to speak through the lock chains. Other times I’d step outside and chat with him on the stoop a while. He was laden with boxes and backpacks and bags, but I barely noticed. Sometimes his tears would leave puddles on the steps, and I’d try not to look. Occasionally he would reach his hand out towards me… only for me to swat it away.

In my 30s, I finally opened the door to grief. He was carrying so much from over the years that he was hunched over, arms permanently bent. He had grown old, eyes swollen, voice hoarse and barely a whisper. He’d ask if he could come in, and I allowed it. The entryway was full of his boxes. He collapsed on the floor and quietly stared at me, his eyes brimming with tears. No words passed between us. Instead, something too vast, too large and too deep for words settled between us- something seemingly insurmountable. As grief began to sob, I too began to sob. I reached for him and in his shock he froze very still. On the cold tile floor there, I embraced him. After a moment… Grief hugged me back.

Eventually I made room for Grief. We found a place to store the boxes and bags while I set up a room for him. The guest room had to be made bigger to accommodate him and his belongings. I carefully placed a blue and green bedspread, fluffing the pillows to perfection. I filled the space with cozy and comforting items, and placed candles and calming scents and teas on the shelf. We made space for an electric kettle and mugs on his desk. We placed plants, unpacked trinkets, and I whispered, “This is our home.”

Grief lives with me now. He is finding his words again, and helping me to find mine in regard to loss, pain, and death. He has held my hand as we read challenging books together, unpacked old memories, sought therapy and soul care. He has held up mirrors, opened old gifts, and spoken gently to my inner child. 

This is where Grief has found me; or rather, this is where I have answered him… and welcomed him home. He never stopped knocking.