A Fickle Friend

I'll never forget the first time I met her and recognized we'd really met before. She came knocking on my door and when I realized who she was I screamed and slammed the door in her face. Frantically, I closed all the blinds and tried to pretend that nobody was home so she would just go away. Relentlessly she knocked until finally, numb from keeping up the facade, I let her in. She rushed to me and I collapsed and she held me while I drowned in the tsunami of it all.

Grief. I hate her. 

When I allow myself to embrace her, I lose all of my control, all of my defenses. It all comes falling down. It embarrasses me. I have no problem feeling hungry, I eat. Tired? I sleep. Thirsty? I drink. Happy? Excited? No problemo.

But not grief, not sadness, not the barrenness of the soul that leaves me raw and aching. 

Yet still she visits, unbidden. Sometimes I come home from work and she's camped out on my couch eating my last pint of Haagen Dazs. Once in awhile she sneaks up on me in the grocery store. If I'm honest there have been a few times I want to hang out, so I get in the car and turn to some old songs that beckon it all back and I bask in the memories. 

She's the uninvited guest to the birthday party and the baby shower, the wedding crasher. She lurks behind the Christmas tree, hides with the Easter eggs, slinks in with the green bean casserole and pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. 

Without her though who would I be?

Would I appreciate these moments now if I had never met her?

What depth of feeling would I have missed without her?

Grief, my uninvited friend, there will come a day when I won't have to hang out with you any more, ever,  and yet I am the richer for having known you.