Grief with nothing in front of it

Something real has been taken, and tonight nothing stands between you and the size of it. That's new. Before, anything this big got a cigarette put in front of it within minutes. It didn't touch the grief, but it blurred the first hour. Tonight nothing's blurred. The loss arrives full size, in whatever order it wants. Of course this feels unbearable.

Grief isn't a malfunction. It's what love does when someone's gone, and it's as big as the love was. The cigarette never shrank a loss by an ounce. It shoved pieces in a drawer for later, like letters you couldn't face opening. Unopened letters stay the same length.

That matters tonight, when numbing looks less like escape and more like mercy. A loss you carry whole moves through you. A loss you postpone just waits. Feeling it now is harder, and it's the shorter road. People who feel it when it comes still grieve hard. Then, slowly, they grieve differently. You're doing the brave version, and it doesn't feel brave at all.

You don't have to process anything tonight. The only goal is reaching morning held, not numbed. Call the one person who won't try to fix it. And give God the raw version, no polish. It's too heavy. Stay close. He can take it untidy. Tonight you feel all of it, with nothing in the way. And all of it includes how much you love them.