06/29/2025
https://www.facebook.com/share/1ArGnLQqXJ/?mibextid=wwXIfr
Grief is the quiet hum of a love that no longer has a body.
It’s the phantom weight at the foot of the bed where they used to sleep.
The way you still pause before opening a cheese wrapper, out of habit.
The way your heart stumbles when you see their favorite toy under the couch, dusty but untouched.
This isn’t just sadness—it’s the echo of a thousand small rituals that once meant nothing and now mean everything.
The way they’d nudge your hand for pets while you worked, or how their tail thumped the floor at the sound of your voice.
The way the house feels like a museum of their absence—every corner whispering, They were here. They mattered.
At first, the grief is a wild thing—sharp teeth, ragged breath. It chews through your days and leaves you raw.
But slowly, the storm inside you settles. Not because the love fades, but because it finds new places to live.
In the way you smile at a stranger’s dog who has their same goofy ears.
In the way you catch yourself saving the last bite of your sandwich, then realize no one is waiting for it.
You don’t “move on” from a love like this.
You fold it into your bones.
You wear it in the way you walk through the world a little softer now, a little more tender—because they taught you how.
Grief isn’t a flaw. It’s the fingerprint of a love so deep it outlived its form.
So let it ache. Let it linger. Let it remind you:
What you miss isn’t gone. It’s just buried in your nervous system—a pulse of warmth when you least expect it.
One day, you’ll tell their story and laugh before you cry.
One day, their memory will feel like sunlight on your shoulders instead of a weight on your chest.
Not because you’ve forgotten, but because love has a way of turning wounds into wisdom.
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