grief is a hole

grief is a hole

think of it as a miles-long pit.

on the first day, you’re sent to the bottom.

you spend months rigging a system meant to pulley your limbs haphazardly to the top.

it fails again and again, your body free falling to its lowest point,

you never knew your stomach had these cavernous depths,

or your brain, the ability to live without sleep for weeks on end.

you make your way out eventually.

you stare at the pit from above, and then from afar.

its image is like a side-by-side with you day and night,

one half your brain reserved for living, the other holding this image still.

at the grocery store, during a meeting, at a concert:

the pit is right there, half your brain reserved.

then, you visit one day.

dirt and debris and leaves have started to enter the pit,

but it’s still much deeper than a hole you’d want to climb your way into.

you do it anyway.

you bring a shovel.

rageful, you shovel the dirt and leaves and wrappers blown by,

they shower down on you seconds after throwing them above your head.

here you are again, where you once were months ago.

instead of pulleys and levers, you climb.

a few feet each day, and your hands have developed this technique never known to your body.

climbing and clawing, slowly and intentionally.

dirt fills your fingertips with pride.

after climbing your way out, you feel the urge to return again the next day,

and so you return.

this time, you begin filling the pit.

fresh dirt placed in, watered with tears.

every week, you return.

as the dirt finally approaches the top,

you pat it with precision and immense softness.

you move slowly, peacefully.

your brain and body are intact.

you sit upon the dirt, and remember.