Grief, Unexpected

Grief is not what I expected.

It does not arrive
wearing black.

It comes quietly,
bringing small things with it.

The taste of sugar from a holiday long gone.
A train passing in the distance.
The creak of a swing in the evening air.

Suddenly the room fills
with voices that are no longer here.

A child laughing.
Someone calling from another room.
A song that used to calm the night.

For a moment
the past returns so clearly
it seems almost possible
to step back into it.

But you cannot.

Grief knows this.

It sits beside you
without speaking.

It places in your hands
objects that no longer belong to anyone:

a ribbon,
a photograph,
a lock of hair.

You hold them.

They feel both ordinary
and impossible.

This is how grief works.

Not through darkness
but through memory.

Through the way the world
suddenly carries
too many meanings.

A kitchen table.
A child’s coat.
A bed left empty.

The living continue their lives.

But something in you
remains behind

in those rooms
where laughter once happened
without effort.

People say grief fades.

Perhaps.

But what remains
is not sorrow alone.

It is the knowledge
that love has no place to go.

So it stays

moving quietly through the days

like someone
who no longer belongs here
but has not yet learned
how to leave.