This morning, I woke groggy and disoriented, fumbling through the quiet of my home. Grief trailed behind me like a shadow. “Not now,” I muttered, barely awake. “This isn’t the time.”
I rushed through breakfast, threw on my coat, and stepped into the world. Grief followed. I turned sharply. “Not now,” I whispered. “They can’t see me cry.”
I buried myself in tasks, distractions, noise—anything to keep her at bay. But when the day finally slowed, and I collapsed into the couch, she returned. No words. Just presence.
“Not now,” I pleaded again. “Can’t you see how much I need this silence?”
She didn’t argue. She simply sat beside me, quiet and still. I felt her there, but refused to look. Until curiosity nudged me.
I glanced over.
She wasn’t the monster I’d imagined. Her hands were folded gently. Flowers adorned her hair. Her skin glowed with softness. She looked…kind.
She caught my gaze and said, “I know. Not now.”
“No,” I replied, “it’s okay. I just didn’t expect you to look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Beautiful. Gentle. Full of grace. And I pushed you away all day.”
Grief smiled, eyes tender. “You just hadn’t seen me dressed as love yet.”
