Grief is a silly thing.

Just when I think I’m safe, it hits me.
Over and over again.
Like waves relentlessly crashing over the shore. Inevitable. Powerful.

And just like those waves, it fluctuates.
Undulates.

At times the waves of grief seem to crescendo. Peak after peak, bombarding the shore without ceasing. Only growing.
And other times, the shore lies calm for a second, with just the occasional small reminder that life is different now and will be forever.
That’s the silly thing about grief.

Everyone always called you silly.

Silly Jilly

From the first time I met you at a basketball camp when I was 16.
You were small but boy, were you mighty. Going into the scrap with the bigs without hesitation. In the midst of the competition, you still led with kindness above all else (a lesson I’m still working to learn all these years later).
And though through the inevitable distance that grew between things like graduation and college, I’ve enjoyed every unexpected encounter. I would give anything to run into you one more time.

You never let yourself be defined by a singular interest. I admire that. You’re one of 3 people who knew me in real life that has read my poetry. I don’t think I’m ready to share that with others yet, but I’m working on it. Writing seemed like the only fitting way I knew to say goodbye.

You moved through this world with such grace and power, leaving waves of light wherever you landed. Those of us who were lucky enough to have shared your light are left better for it.

And now we are all left with the remnants of that light you so graciously gave to all. It seems to be fading through the lenses of grief. But that light is still there, strong as ever, just shadowed behind the current clouds.

The thing about storms is that they never go away. The waves keep coming without warning. But we become masters at navigating the seas, stumbling blindly towards the light you left behind.

21 years was not enough and nothing can change that. We are all so grateful for the time that we had.