via Year Three: The Music of Your Absence
When I was younger, I had an odd little habit called Song of the Day. Back when the standard mode of listening to music was via cassette tape or CD, I would choose a song and play it on repeat, all day long. All. Day. Long. I’m not sure I understood then why my Song [...]
It is sometimes effortless like conversations with trusted friends the knowing of safety where all you can do is be honest one fragile word at a time this is the place where healing begins
One of the most important lessons I learned after my Pops died was not to wait; never wait. Some people think it silly to spend money on a dog, and some people say you can’t buy happiness—I say those people must have never loved or been loved by a dog.
For those who feel like there is something wrong with them—the way they feel and think, or the way they grieve—this magic-lineless, unicorn-free piece is for you.
Some days there's a blank feeling that’s hard to describe in its nothingness. Not the absence of what once was, more like the subtraction of what should be.
To suggest that it gets easier implies that grief no longer requires effort to hold; that it is somehow more comfortable. It’s not—not at all. It’s different.
I realized that what I was searching for was proof. Proof that he existed, that he loved me and that he loves me still. I suppose in a way I was breaking my own heart.
In this fast-paced, disconnected world we live in, we discount how important we might be to the person sitting next to us.
It’s the one place where no matter what is going on, or how I feel, I can go to find peace. You took that away from me today.