grief: part three
Kind thoughts, words or actions totally undo me.
Coming home to a florist box of exquisite flowers unexpectedly in the sixth week, from someone interstate, pushes the waterworks button. The kindness of not even an old or close friend, just an incredibly thoughtful one.
And much appreciated. I hadn’t cried in almost a week. And in great need of relieving the fluid building up behind eyes. And heart.
Last time I grieved a death, I noted six weeks was the turning point. The tokens of condolence tend to come to an end but it’s only now the rot begins to set in. The hard slog of coming to grips with a heavy and permanent loss. The inescapable realisation that the fabric of life has been torn.
It’s now that the kind words, thoughts and actions become rarer, ironically when you need them the most. The secret club of those who understand grief, who are no longer afraid of it or wracked with their own pain, come forth.
It’s one of those groups you don’t wish to belong to. Many shun their right of admission.
Don’t be a stranger.