The Grief That Passes Through You

The Grief That Passes Through You

The grief that passes through ain’t less real for passing —
The wave that floods the body, gathering
Its full weight in the chest then pulling back,
The sudden swell, the slow retreat, the knack
Of loss that arrives unbidden, settles in,
Delivers everything it holds, and then within
The ordinary, receding.

I’ve had both — the permanent and the wave —
And the wave’s harder to explain to those who stay
In their own separate storms. The way it crests,
The way it lays you flat before it rests
On you completely, then withdraws its weight,
The grief that announces itself, then waits
At the edge of the ordinary.

The grief that passes through you in a wave
Is the ambush — the sudden cave
Opening beneath the ordinary floor,
The minute you’re not grieving anymore
And then the loss arrives in full, the whole
Of it, and then the retreat, the burn
Of the wave, the coolness after.

It happens at the grocery store, the drive,
The song that plays, the stranger’s child, the knife
Of the ordinary that grief has marked as its —
And then the wave hits and for a minute I’m
Consumed, annexed, pulled under by the full
Weight of it, and then the thunder starts to pull
Away and the ordinary returns.

The ordinary returning after the wave
Is its own thing — the way the day gets saved
From what just hit it. The resilience of the daily
Reasserting itself, the way a rally
Pulls through. The coffee and the task, the after-
Grief ordinary that feels almost like grace.

And I’ve learned to trust the ordinary’s return —
To know the wave will crest, then find the shore,
That after every current there’s the daily side.
I know the grief will pass right through me
And the ordinary will be there, will be
Waiting on the other side.
Doesn’t make the wave smaller. Just makes the ride
Less terrifying than those first-year waves were.