Grief is my visitor. The kind that shows up unannounced.
At the silent feeling of being watched, I'll look up from flakes of cereal swimming in milk and we'll lock eyes across the fruit bowl. I'll take the stairs two at a time to ready a bed. Lest later that night there is someone else cocooned in my covers, resting on my lopsided pillow.
Sometimes grief will ring the doorbell first. I'll have the chance to push the kitchen curtains aside and peer at who stands before the front door. But I'll have to let it in, lest it searches for the spare key under the welcome mat and enters the house while I am in the shower.
When grief is my visitor, I am the most gracious host. I greet it by name, saying "Welcome back." I treat it with kindness, allowing it to be itself. I cannot ignore it, or it will become upset. It will grab the figurines on my dresser and launch them across the room. Anything for a morsel of attention. I've felt that type of desperation before. I almost admire it for being able to express itself in a way I haven't had courage to. We are at peace.
When grief left my house, I crumbled under the weight of smiling for so long. Everyone around me saw that it was gone and there was nothing else to bring it back. And that's when it hurt the most.
