Grief In winter
I haven’t written in a long time and I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. There is a lot of beauty and love and ease in my day-to-day life right now. Periods of grief still come and go. There’s an ebb and flow to the whole process that I’ve come to respect, but as time goes on it’s more like tides coming in and going out. Unlike the early days when tsunamis would routinely swell and overwhelm and shatter the simplest of moments.
But losses are still being tallied. I suppose they always will be, because in each new phase of life, Dave is still not here. This is the nature of losing your person.
Here is a glimpse into a dark day recently. Or maybe, a gray day. They aren’t always like this but they do come. To pretend otherwise isn’t good for me or you.
March 2025
The end of winter is the hardest. Even if parts of winter consist of ice, hail, and snowstorms that blast in, closing schools and every capitalistic venture in their radius, we bundle up and tell ourselves how strong we are. We see beauty mixed with dormancy. We get to rest and cozy in. We get to pass on events and go to bed early. We get to focus on comfort and seeking heat, lest we die with the trees that are too weak to live through the harshness of a Canadian winter.
The long, drawn-out end of winter, even if it’s an anemic, sniveling whiner, is more than anyone should be asked to bear.
It is a marathon of looking on the bright side, and resolve is drying up. Even though year after year the same thing happens—the same exact thing—it is somehow unexpected. It’s the leg of the race we forgot to train for.
Grief at 1,561 days is unexpected. And untrained for.
Today, I’m reckoning with the future we planned for but don’t get to have. Not so much the travels, adventures, and milestones of life but the everyday fun of planning and dreaming about them. Everyday-breathing life into the present and the future. Everyday-hope. Everyday-life.
Is this really the first time I’ve felt the weight of this? That’s unexpected. I’ve heard others feeling this for me. I’ve read about it. I’ve felt it mentally, but today it hits my emotions. Today, it sinks deep into my bones like the damp cold of late winter. Unwelcome. Inescapable. And somehow, a surprise.
There’s nowhere to go. No amount of gratitude will shift it. There’s only sitting in it and waiting. Sinking into the couch with a coffee and a blanket and having a good cry are the only offerings I have to give.
A light snowfall is starting. Oddly, my soul welcomes it. It’s not trying to be anything else. It’s not trying to be warm and inviting. It’s not trying to be over the winter and healed. It’s the truest thing I see. The ongoing pummeling of bone-chilling grief is still here. The snow and I can’t fake it. We’re not up to warm earth and sunshine and soil that is seed-ready.
We’re not ready. And it’s that time of the year when we wonder if the warming will ever come, will the grieving ever be completely gone, or will we always have this chill in our bones?
I wonder if that’s why grandmothers who have seen death many times wear sweaters in the summer.
