i’ve stopped saying “i’m sorry” when a grieving person tells me about their loss.
by the time night fell on the day my brother died, the words “i’m sorry” didn’t even look like words anymore. and they sure as hell didn’t mean anything to me. and i knew people were saying those words because they didn’t know what else to say, because there isn’t really anything to say.
but you know what stuck with me the most out of all the expressed condolences?
i remember the hands placed over hearts, heads nodding while i spoke.
i remember the first time i was told “i’m holding space for you” instead of “i’m so sorry.”
i remember the people who asked if they could light candles. the people who asked if they could pray. the people who sat in my grief with me. the people who didn’t try and make it better.
i remember the people who said “there’s nothing i can say and there’s nothing i can do, but my shoulder is ready for your head should you choose to rest it.” i remember the people who said “this sucks and there’s nothing i can do and there’s nothing you can do but here’s some soup, i made it with love.” i remember the people who asked “would it help to talk? my ears are ready for silence or screaming or whatever you need.”
i remember the people who wordlessly passed me another tissue.
“i’m sorry” is not a weapon that can kill grief because grief is born from love and you cannot kill what can never die.
“i’m sorry” can’t control the bleeding of a broken heart. but love can.
love can staunch that wound that grief leaves a body. it can’t heal it. not alone. but my god does it help so much more than words alone.
