Conversation with Grief

I wrote this piece in 2023, during a writing seminar on Writing Through Loss and Trauma with David Kessler and Andrea Cagan. The prompt was, "Imagine a conversation with your grief." Grateful to have had the opportunity to learn from both Andrea and David and from my classmates.

Today, the 6th anniversary of Ronen's death on the Gregorian calendar, and as an introduction with more of my writing to come in the next weeks and months, feels like the right time to share it. I still feel his presence dancing in the shadows.

“Hello,” it says to me sheepishly, fidgeting with a toy car in the corner.

“Who are you?” I ask, suddenly aware of another presence in the room where I thought I sat alone.

"I am Grief," it whispers. “I have been waiting for you to notice me here. I've been sitting quietly for such a long time."

I see him out of the corner of my eye, but can't bring myself to look at him straight on. He is a wispy shadow, all at once mysterious but familiar. He is the size of a four-and-a-half year old, much the same shape my missing child might have been now.

I inhale deeply and smell the phantom odor of a hospital room, the last place I was present with my son.

The clattering of the toy car startles me again. The sound is only in my mind but it loudly echoes in the quiet space.

“Will you play with me?” he asks. 

Eyes still clenched and cast down, I can't will my neck to unbend. “I so wanted to play with you, but you're not really here."

“No, I  am here," he harrumphs indignantly. “I have been here the whole time! Ronen is not here. I am not Ronen. I am Grief. When your son left you, I came to take his place.” 

The shadow boy seems to change color, glinting a flash of red sparkle before fading back to gray. Anger builds the lump in my throat, and I feel it banging out a loud drumbeat in my heart, faster and faster.

I inhale, feeling flat feet on the cold floor, trying to collect myself so as not to upset the small child.. My instincts are not to be tamed.

“Who invited you??” I snap. “What gives you the right to take his place?”

My eyes jolt up as if to cast lightning bolts to vanquish this being. But I realize that I am talking to myself, that the shadow being is no more outside of me than he is a real toddler. Why do I consider his feelings? Why must I control myself for his benefit?

And then the tears come: I birthed him, too. 

If Grief is to be my companion then I must raise him to accompany me on this journey. I must teach him to be the kind of companion that serves me, not that throws tantrums, makes a mess of things, tugs at my skirt in inappropriate moments. If I am destined to keep him along, I must give him his due on my terms.

I realize, too, that he will grow. As I mature, so will he. His cold, small hand will reach up for mine. And if I allow it, we will walk together.