If my grief were a book, it would be Dickens. Large, expansive, serialized. My grief provokes tears, provokes laughter. Marvels at the absurdity of life. Goes on and on. Driven by words. And memories. Little action and lots of description.
If my grief were a touch, it would be the grip of an infant on his mother’s thumb. Hanging on, but oblivious to the need to do so. A reflex of sorts. Never wondering why.
If my grief were a bowl, it would be a large ceramic bowl used to make bread. Something that can hold the small bit of yeast and water and hold the enormous amounts of flour. Accommodate the dough and air while holding the temperature steady for the rising.
If my grief were a garden, it would be a cottage garden. English. Somewhat of a mess, but breathtaking at its peak.
If my grief were a dog, it would be a dachshund. Stubborn, hard to train, following me everywhere. Sweet in its devotion. Sincere in its love.
If my grief were a pair of glasses, it would be bifocals with lines, heavy black frames, held together with super glue, and a Band-Aid.
If my grief were a sunset, it would be the opposite of a Hawaiian one. The sun would not blaze the sky with color and magnificence to slip into a silver ocean turning the sky a vivid dark blue. Oh no. It would be the sunset of a blizzard in Maine. Unnoticed for the misery.
If my grief were a door, it would be a revolving one like at the bank. With muddy footprints and the fingerprints of mourners on the glass.
If my grief were an elevator, it would be out of order. The door opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, going nowhere.
If my grief were a sports car, it would be a Camaro – mostly ordinary but with a certain touch of pizzazz –like a custom paint job.
If my grief were a person, it would be Cheri and Donnie, Doug and Daddy, Susan and Debbie and Jes.
If my grief were to leave, I think there would remain a hole where it used to be.