Sometimes, grief doesn't arrive in tears

sometimes, grief doesn't arrive in tears,

or rage, collapsed aches, embodied sobs,

sometimes it comes as stillness,

numb, surreal.

a quiet fog that settles over everything.

like the world keeps turning,

but you don't.

you go through the motions,

go to work, wash the dishes,

but your body is somewhere else,

trapped in a moment that hasn't finished happening,

you hear the words,

they're final, they matter,

though they float outside of your body,

refusing to land,

the news hasn't sunk in, your heart hasn't caught up,

and you don't yet know how to speak the language of this loss.

you hold it together,

not because they didn't matter,

but because you're not here,

your grief is not behind,

just beginning to find a way through.

the shock, the disbelief, the dissociation,

grief wearing one of it's earliest faces

whispering 'not yet,

we're still finding a way to bear it.'