On Grief

You wake up in the morning and you have a minute, maybe two, of ignorance. Then the memory comes. Data only at first, devoid of sentiment. You examine that data, emotionless. Clinical. It is a thing that happened. You remember feeling sorrow, but you do not feel sorrow. It is not part of you. You tell yourself that you’ll be okay. That there are no more tears to shed. 

Then it hits you, grief boiling out of you like vomit, bursting forth through clenched teeth. It shakes you. Strength leaves your legs. Your lungs turn to stone. You feel as though someone has seized you by the hair and plunged your head into water. It holds you as you struggle to breathe.

It passes. For a moment, then for a few, then for a few minutes. You breathe into the bottom of your lungs. A moment of clarity. You remind yourself that it cannot, will not last forever. And you think, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Maybe not today, but–

It hits you again.

As if to punish you for thinking you could survive. You feel as if someone has plunged your head under water, then let you up long enough only to gasp for a single breath before pushing you back under. Over and over.