There is a kind of grief that does not arrive all at once.
It is not the grief of emergency rooms, flashing lights, doctors asking you to sit down, or the terrible instant when your body understands something your mind is still refusing to accept.
That grief is brutal, but at least it has a beginning.
You can point to the moment and say:
That was when everything changed.
The grief I had carried for thirteen years was different.
It came afterward.
After the funeral flowers died.
After the casseroles
