Last week, I was writing in my journal and, while I was writing, an outer/inner voice said to me, “that’s some good writing you got there.” I have no idea if that’s true; I’ve never shared a journal entry before, don’t intend to make it a habit, but today I am going to.
I think my grief for Mr. Bibb is still tucked down, hiding somewhere. I have not “done” it, not grieved yet, deeply. Here some comes, here is grief, I feel it. Relief will come. Grief, hard and wet now, grief which has been pushed down, easier to pretend it’s not real, grief deep and shaky, needing breath and tissues, with runny, runny nose, bathroom too far, but tears rolling down my cheeks, breath tight, must get Kleenex or snot will be too much on this sweatshirt.
I pause for a moment to get Kleenex, sniffs of snot not working well enough, tears needing out, ready to come out. Big sighs. Kleenex field trip putting a stop to them, at least for now. The thought, “Mr. Bibb is dead,” again leads to somewhat hitching diaphragm, tight breath. Tears slowing now, not unwanted, now welcome, but that fucker-grief, as we know, now hides its ugly head, ready to spring back unexpected, like a whack-a-mole, unbidden, unasked for, unexpected. Suddenly, it will come, as I know, whenever it feels like it, and it will only be at that moment I will have to choose if I can whack-a-mole it down. That is the timing, the chance and choice I will have, to grieve in public, and I will try to stuff it down, or in private, depending on the moment, and only then will I choose. Mr. Bibb is dead. I can choose, in that moment, or as happened with Mr. Larrieu in that fucking Home Depot grief-moment, that fucking Christmas music, and me, letting the tears fall as they would.
And now, again, as they did, my breath truly-fully hitching now, stomach tight, me regretting the foolish choice to only grab two Kleenex and not the whole box. What was I thinking?
And now it slows, slowly, fog on glass in winter, heavy breath shrinking sl0wly, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Suddenly, I realize that, unintentionally, while grieving this moment–these moments, I accidentally wrote today’s blog.
All for now. Love, me