Grief is a Mother

On loss

In general I try to keep this newsletter very light.

As my devoted readers, I love to laugh with you about who’s wearing what, who’s boinking whomst, and how much I want to [redacted] Long Hair Chris Pine in general, but as of late, I’ve realized that the only thing I’ve wanted to talk about was grief, and on Mother’s Day, it hit me harder than ever, for I was a son, without a mother.

Four years ago, when covid numbers were trending down, and it seemed like everything was going to be okay, I lost my mother to CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease)—she lived a full year past when doctors said she would, she was spiteful that way, a woman who forged her own path—and when it happened, it was expected, so I told myself it didn’t hurt as much. But here I am, typing this newsletter today, a few days after Mother’s Day, with a stomach, and chest full of pain.

Grief is not linear. It is not simple, and it is not a journey through tall grass, beaten by the bare feet of those before us, leading us to a tropical destination where everything will be just fine. Sometimes it is messy, it is brutal, and one moment it can make you feel so alone, breathless, being strangled by sorrow, and the next breathlessly laughing about how much your loved one would have hated a TV show that just premiered on Netflix because it stars that one actor’s name she can’t even remember ( I won’t be watching either! Solidarity) My mother was not an easy woman (the best ones never are) she was funny, and complex, and blunt, and overbearing, and daring, and beautiful, and did I mention how fucking funny she was?

Anyway—yesterday, as I was staring blankly out the window, while desperately trying to finish the rewrites for a project I deeply care about, a cardinal flew onto my windowsill and looked directly at me. It was as clear as day, that it was her. Stopping by to say hello, a day late, on her own time. Sometimes grief is hidden in goodbyes, and other times, it’s a sign of your loved one saying hello.