Grief is your doctor saying his prayers weren’t answered; hearing his disappointment before he speaks the hard truth aloud.
Grief is trying to hold it together long enough to finish the conversation so you don’t blubber into the phone.
Grief is curling up in your bed and sobbing until it feels like your head and chest will explode with the pain.
Grief is wishing you could sleep until it doesn’t hurt anymore.
Grief is clinging to a photo of your babies and knowing they’ll never be more than those few cells but it feels like a miscarriage all over again.
Grief is putting on makeup and sunglasses and hoping no one asks how your day is going.
Grief is giving into the ugly cry when you need to; pulling over to sob until you can see to drive again.
Grief is letting tears fall when they need to, packing extra kleenex, and knowing you have to let the pain in for it to get better.
Grief is feeling angry when people want to comfort you; even tender words to a wounded heart can hurt.
Grief is praying for acceptance of whatever happens; praying the pain doesn’t harden your heart.
Grief is time. The oblivion of sleep, the stray tears of insomnia, moments of distraction, moments carried under by the waves.
Grief is waiting; choosing to move slowly, being tender with your body and your heart. Allowing the weight and truth be what it is and not trying to rush to cover it or push it away. It’s knowing those sparks of life deserve to be grieved just as they were loved; wholly and completely.