Grief lives in my lungs. My lungs temper my grief – keep me upright, keep me alive, keep breathing…putting one foot in front of the other. Grief lives in my lungs.

I had quit smoking in the months before my dad died. I had tried so many times to quit smoking and this time seemed to be working. Oh sure, I had cravings, but I was managing them.
My mother called, “Come quick. It’s an emergency.” Part of me knew. I stopped breathing.
And then, I went tearing down the hill after putting shoes on. Normally I would have gone barefoot. I don’t know why the shoes. In case we had to go to the hospital? Part of me knew.
I was breathing hard by the time I got to the house. Shallow, unsatisfying breaths. My father dead on the floor. I quickly knelt and started chest compressions, went to blow air in his mouth. Cold. He was cold.
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