On second thought (or insert whatever cardinal number you choose for how many times I have rethought this), I’m not finished grieving.
Remember that day when I thought I was? When my tears dried up right in the middle of my twelfth anniversary and I declared myself free?
(Oh, Tricia. Your naïveté is so darling.)
It was a milestone, that day. It was a turning point. And the emotions I have felt and carried and processed in the weeks since then have been different from the emotions prior to that day.
But I’m not done. Nope.
Grief is perhaps a stone I carry in my pocket.
And sometimes it grows legs and chases me down. And sometimes it wraps its iron chain around my neck.
And sometimes it just sits, smooth as a worry stone, silent as a memory, along for the ride.
But gone? No. Not gone.
I give myself extra points for being able to say, publicly, “‘Member that thing I said? I was wrong.”
Thank you for not saying, Yeah, I totally wondered about that. I didn’t think you were done.