Grief is a Room

People you know come knocking on the door. They bring candles. The light of their little fires blinds you; your eyes are used to darkness.

They ask you questions with no answer. Some know better, and sit with you in silence. Others give you food you can’t taste.

As they each take their leave, they turn and give you a brief look, hoping you’ll join them. They shut the door gently behind them.

Their gifted candles wilt away. The darkness returns.

You sense that everyone outside is waiting on you. You hear the tapping of impatient feet, the ticking of a clock building up to alarm.

Tick tock.

“How are you?”

Tick tock.

“Are you feeling better yet?”

Tick tock.

“You’ve been in here for a while now. Isn’t it time to move on?”

Part of you wishes they’d all just leave you alone. Maybe then, the one you lost will come back. You ache for a miracle to return the missing piece to your broken puzzle, to fill the black hole in your soul, to thaw the frozen limb your brain knows is gone but your heart refuses to let go.

You wonder, more and more each day, where we go when we disappear, and whether they’ll be there waiting, if you followed them into the unknown.

All you know is, you cannot leave the room.

Not yet. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.