If grief were a tangible thing, I would wrestle it from your arms.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would store it in a bottle and throw it out to sea with a note that says, “please don’t open me.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would place a bookmark before your least favorite chapter, and let us come back to it another day.

If grief were a tangible thing, or a wound, easily seen to the human eye, I would be able to stitch you back together with something other than the words, “I’m so sorry.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would wipe it from your eyes, like the tears that fall.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would be the first to hold your heart while we tie it up neatly with bandages.

If grief were a tangible thing, if grief were a tangible thing. If.