As I age
I have come to know grief
between each of the five letters
and beyond the formality of a definition.

I assume we all do.

Grief has its own personality,
an ability to consume your chest,
your muscles, your bones,
embodying the deepest of pains
as you sit submerged
below the water’s surface.

Grief has its own agenda,
prioritizing its need for attention
above your own,
announcing itself loudly
interrupting anything and everything else,
bringing your world to a stop.

Grief ebbs and flows
but never really leaves us
instead
it changes alongside and within us
forcibly holding our hands,
refusing to let go.

Grief has become a familiar sensation
in my body;
I hardly know how to live without it
and, call it irony,
grieve for the past where we had only
met briefly, in passing,
gifting me time to live in naivety.

In my head
I know I am strong
and I can endure,
but in my heart
sometimes
it hurts
beyond what seems to be my capacity.
I know, now,
it’s in those moments
I need to love myself more
than I instinctively consider necessary.

As I walk hand-in-hand with grief
I’m coming to understand
grief encourages recognition
of what we hold the most dear
and in a way,
even in the briefest of moments,
grief can be beautiful.

Even in the briefest of moments.