Grief is my houseguest.
I presume she came with our furniture, was unloaded with numerous boxes, easily missed in the clutter and chaos. Or perhaps she was part of the house, was already here when we first moved in. I certainly don’t remember issuing an invitation, but I’ve reluctantly allowed her to stay. I ask Grief to keep to herself, preferably out of the way in the laundry cupboard or behind the bookcase.
The best days are when I can invite Grief to walk along the beach with me. We use the time to acknowledge one another, to talk and to weep, to listen to the water and birdsong, to wet our feet in the cold awakening water. Eventually when we return home, we have found a companionable silence, which I carry with me into the busy-ness of the day.