The silence sang to me like no song could.
I stooped. I was half alive, I was alone, I was searching for relaxation.
I was looking for freedom from the nervous, shaking bundle of stick my body had to offer me.
But that’s alright, I tell myself. There’s no use being indignant.
“Your grandfather’s died” I heard through the phone.
I grieved him years before his passing.

Relief came over me as I awaited grief in silence.

What was more alarming was the manic girl in the corner with burn marks up her arms running treadmill, spinning bike pedals faster than light, with no care for how she exhausted herself.
The slap of her feet hitting the floor and her gasping.

More alarming yet was the woman in blue hospital pajamas chanting in a yell “nurse, nurse!” all day and night, after she had beaten her head senseless against a steel wall. I grieve her loss of cognitive choice

I had no time to prepare to grieve either the manic girl or the woman in blue.
In loss and in love, grieving is a process that starts from the beginning and can carry on past the end.

I can choose to endure.
Pain has neither the choice to cease nor exist.

Pain is stronger than me because pain doesn’t wince at the sight of me. My grandfather’s strength lives beyond the grave.
I won’t grieve what carries on.

The silence sang to me like no song could.