Читать книгу Spiritual American Trash - Greg Bottoms - Страница 23

People get old. Their bodies fail. They die. Everyone knows this but something about the human mind won’t let us fully accept that it will happen to us and the people we love.

But what if you get imprisoned by grief?

When someone you love dies, it’s like the grief is deep, dark, cold water, and you’re in it. At first there is an anchor, a very heavy anchor, attached to your ankle. You sink, you struggle, you can’t get out, but most people find a way to keep their nose and mouth just out of the water, barely, to keep breathing and stay alive. Normally, the anchor holding you there gets lighter with time, dissolving like a slow-fizzing Alka-Seltzer, so you’re still in the water for a while but your head is up, and then your shoulders, and then, miraculously, you are up on the shore, a new shore. You can look around and try—even though you’re exhausted and confused—to imagine what to do next with the life you have remaining without your beloved, which you never imagined could happen. Not accurately, anyway.

But what if it didn’t work like that? What if the anchor got heavier, the water darker and colder? What would that turn you into?