Grief is universal, and yet intensely personal. No two people experience it in quite the same way.
Every minute is discrete. One moment, you’ve forgotten; the next, a glimpse of a memory, and you’re stricken. And then, a happy memory. And then, you laugh.
Grief is solitary. No one can understand the exact nature of your grief. You must endure it alone.
You weren’t special.
Your goodness was so attainable,
yet so few endeavor to attain.
You loved unconditionally,
With no expectations.
You weren’t perfect.
Yet you were extraordinary.
You left a hole that no one can fill.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With 'This was last her fingers did,' Industrious until The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves. A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him,-- At rest his fingers are. Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs. Emily Dickinson
My mother in law. My son’s grandmother. My friend.