Grief without Tragedy

Tragedy: an accident; the sudden loss of a young life; a violent death.

My grief without tragedy is like a slow boil, with occasional overflows. I walk slowly, talk slowly, too absorbed in my own thoughts to even realize how absorbed in my own thoughts I am. Sometimes I have no thoughts, and I just stare at things, as though they were talking to me. I am the opposite of anxious.

People approach me with care; others with caution, unfamiliar with death and afraid, perhaps, of saying the wrong thing. Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing. I enjoy an invitation to talk. I can talk about someone who loved me who's gone; about how this places me irrevocably in adulthood; how there's no one left to take care of me and shouldn't I be taking care of someone? I can talk about other things too, not just loss. I enjoy hearing others' good news. I even enjoy hearing others' suffering and tragedy, because it just means we're all still human.

This weekend I am making a trip to New York City - not my annual pilgrammage but a special visit to be with my cousin Carmen. The picture is of my mother, on the left, and hers.