Macey
Grief was a strange thing.
Before cancer, I thought grief belonged at funerals. I thought it came wrapped in black clothes, tearful hugs, and casseroles delivered by neighbors who didn’t know what else to do.
After cancer, I learned grief was much quieter than that.
Sometimes it looked like an untouched cup of coffee growing cold on the kitchen counter.
Sometimes it looked like staring at a television that had been on for hours without remembering a single thing that had happened.
Sometimes it looked like a man who had spent his life believing he could fix almost anything sitting on the floor of his condo, completely broken because there had been nothing he could do to save an eleven-year-old little girl.
That was the version of grief I had found yesterday.
And this morning…
