I surrender to sharing grief

The phone was still in my hand. It lit up again. A different name, different storyline. It’s so unexpected I pick up.

A cheerful voice asks about my plans for the weekend. My mouth opens, closes.

“I’ve just learned my dad is dying. Like, ten minutes ago.”

I’d almost just hung up, but the numbness froze my default emergency protocol. Snuffed out the blinking lights that read : Tell No One. Hide until you’ve Processed.

So I just said it. Then said it again. To whoever really wanted to know. Spoke the words during the days my body felt nothing, alien, my mind a haze. I peaked from under the thick blanket of numbness, and found I had not landed in the hiding cave.
Someone played music and brought firewood. Hands stroked my ankles while I slept. I spent an afternoon spooned between a man and two purring cats. When I found I couldn’t cook, I was fed. I was taken to see the sun rise. I was held, sung to, left alone. I was seen.
I shared, and through the sharing felt the tug and tingle of all these threads, the soft red wool that with each day, pulled me back a little.

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