It didn’t happen all at once; it’s not something that works that way. Grief is like the ocean. I didn’t simply open my eyes to find I had been completely swallowed by a few thousand feet of water. It comes and goes as it pleases, leaving me helpless to its erratic urges. Memories flood my mind in chance doses.

I am not always able to feel it, but I always know it’s there. Sometimes I pretend I am someplace else, anyplace else, but the musty air laced with sweat and salt reminds me I’m still trapped near the ocean. Lurking behind every thread of consciousness, the feeling pervades my mind. I see a sunflower glowing hot yellow in the middle of the afternoon. Sweet and sick, the stench of the flower pervades my nostrils. I tell myself its beauty is not unnerving. I act like the sinister bud is not distasteful. I pretend I do not remember that it is her favorite flower. But, not matter what I do, I will never be able to forget the way she loved those blossoms. The flower somehow lost its lighthearted purpose, only serving to mock me. 

Sometimes I dip my toes in, letting the foam caress my ankles. It’s not unpleasant, nostalgia shades my smile. I give in just a little, forget I do not want to swim. I miss the rush of cold water; I crave anything that makes me feel closer. The sea can be welcoming. Sitting shotgun in my car, she has the entirety of her head flung out the window. Wind is twisting her hair into a mountain of ruin. I yell at her to get inside the car, of course, to no avail. I twist my mouth into an angry sneer, while my eyes betray my laughter. We both shriek whatever vulgar and completely inappropriate song blasts out of the speakers.

I hear the song now and can’t resist the smile. I know she wouldn’t either.

Sometimes I am sitting in the sand where the water laps up on the edge of the shoreline. I have to cool off more than just my toes, but I am not forced to go in. I let the rolls mist my skin; they come to me longingly. The water gifts me with a lapful of shells to admire. She’s dancing around like a fairy, giddy with expectation. Her face glows with life. I let her do my makeup after more pleading than I care to deny. She concentrates every essence of her being on the arch of my eyebrows. She scolds me when I sneeze, and scrunches her own brows, somehow allowing her to get a better view of mine. The hairs of the brush flutter around my cheek-bone, twirl up my jaw line. When she finishes her masterpiece, she just stares. The vibrant smile appears again, then her mouth unseals. Her laugh is always wild and inviting. Somehow, her eyes grow a few inches when she laughs. They suck me in and make me feel like I am laughing too I probably am.

“Tonight will be the best night ever.”

She is right, of course. She always was.

Sometimes I find myself waist deep in frigid water; I want to get out, but that is no easy task. I cannot pick up my feet, dense water enfolds me. I am stuck. Breakers beat my chest; rusty water is thrown in my mouth. I spit it out, but I cannot move. I am terrified the tide will pull me farther out, and I am too weak to force myself back to shore. I know that she can feel my tears on her shoulder, leaving mascara and pain tattooed on her shirt. She rubs her red polished thumbs over my swollen cheeks. She smiles at me. I apologize for her shirt. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t invalidate my feelings, she doesn’t judge me. She reminds me that no matter why I may be upset, she will always be there for me. I don’t want to forgive the world for not letting her keep her promise.

Sometimes I get dragged under completely. I don’t know how it happens. My eyes feel like the seventh pit of hell has scorched them, my vision is flooded. My body is flung violently, relentlessly, by merciless waves. My throat is torn, forced to endure a bombardment of salt. My lungs are flooding, I cannot breathe. I want to yell, but I just choke more. Suffering the complete rage of the ocean, I am lost in the infinite abyss. I remember the songs the church choir sang that day. Someone brought sunflowers. I hated looking at myself in that dress. It was too somber, too long, too black. I hated the way everyone else looked at me in that dress. Their faces were all mirrors of my own. Someone held my hand, someone else held my hand, someone else, someone held my hand the entire service and somehow that could not make it even slightly more bearable.

They say that grief comes in stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These are all valid emotions; however, I disagree that the process is so linear. It does not happen in a straight line, nor in a way that makes any sort of rational sense. It is not the case that step one occurs, then step two, and so on until step five, and then, congratulations, the end is reached. It comes in random tangents. In a single instance you could be in stage five and stage three, and then in the next you could be in stage one. It is like how the oceans’ tides are sometimes predictable, due to the common patterns in gravity, but are never quite so uniform. We can predict that the tides will rise at night, but not to the exact height, not to the exact time. We can predict the stages of grief, but not to the precise sequence, not to the exact extent. The path is not a straightforward one, nor is it one that ends. It is impossible to reach a point where the ocean ceases to move, just as it is impossible to reach a point that grief will lose its effect.

Its not a simple thing, the ocean. It moves where it wants, when it wants. There are some things out of our control, and, like most things, understanding that is easier than accepting it.