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MAIREAD CASE

31

Grief is not always sharp, but grief is always.

Grief is playing in the shadow of a familiar house. A house where familiar people ate and slept and loved. Sometimes a person falls asleep in that shadow. Dead-asleep, drool-on-the-grass-asleep, and sometimes in that sleep they dream about the person who left. They wake with leaves smashed into the side of their face, and for three seconds they forget ever missing anyone.

Grief is losing an arm and realizing there is nothing to do about it.

You don’t have an arm anymore.

Every morning you think: wow. I don’t have an arm.