{mally powell}

Grief is a funny bugger - 9 December 2018

Grief is a funny bugger isn’t it?

I find myself walking along in the sunshine, feeling generally quite happy with life and actively enjoying the cool air and the warm sun on my face, while simultaneously aware of the sadness weighing on my solar plexus.

If I shift my attention to it for a moment tears prick my eyes, as though they’ve been sitting there all along just waiting for the chance to flow before deciding that heading down the hill to meet a friend, or strolling in the sunshine with the dog, is the perfect time.

And then I take a deep breath, and it eases.

But the weight remains.

Grief is a funny bugger - 9 December 2018

Absence is weighing heavy today. 

 

There have been many quiet tears.

 

Walking the dog along the front earlier I suddenly had a vivid memory of my dad in the mortuary. Of realising they were bringing him to us in the cold, marble chapel and that I would have no choice whether to go into a viewing room with Mum and his partner or, as I expected I would, to stay outside. Of the doors from the mortuary opening and of hearing myself gasp ‘My daddy’ as I saw him. 

 

His partner was confused why he was so cold, and so still. 

 

He looked so... Him. My daddy. I wanted to hold him, but feared the chill stillness where there had always been a warm hug.

 

A kind orderly in scrubs brought us wine glasses and a bottle of fizzy water, and nodded gently while I tearfully thanked him in a language that was not his own. 

 

I thought I was fine with it.

 

I’m not.