Wednesday, July 3, 2013

A Prickly Old Woolen Sweater

Tuesday, July 2, 2013  2:26 PM

Wednesday, July 3, 8:30 AM

Grief can be loud.  It stomps its feet and shakes its fists in my face. It is surly and follows me where ever I go. It is prickly and wears on me like an old woolen sweater.   It tosses and turns me in my troubled sleep.  It wakes me up at one and two and three AM.
Grief does not come in shades of gray.  It is blacker than black.

Life's struggles and troubles will, at times, overpower this grief.  It stares it down and shoves it to the side.  It can lull and numb this grief into a glazed hypnotic state.

Grief will not stay away.   It sneaks up and whispers, “I’m still here.”  It chants its soft mantra until I am too weary.

I was sad yesterday and I am sadder today.

I miss my son, Joseph Christopher.  I will never understand why he is not here today, like he was just yesterday, with Domani, to collect sea shells, build castles in the sand and chase waves on a hot summer day.

And so I gave in and gave up.  I cried and then I slept.


  1. I'm sorry, Lynda, sorry that you live with that pain. Sorry that nothing can take that way. I am glad you gave in to the tears. As you noted the other day in that post that I wrote, there is something healing in the emotional tears. Grief visits but then, when it is given some attention rather than pushed aside, it finally goes away again (for awhile). Here's to the comfort found in tears. JT

  2. Thank you. The pain is more difficult at certain times. And it usually seems to be random as to when it will occur. Perhaps a glance at an old photo or a thought of a fond memory.
    Ross is a great support, but I think for others in my life it is harder for them to talk to me about Joe and my loss. So I write about it and "talk" to them that way.