When Grief Needs Somewhere to Sit
Grief has terrible manners.
It arrives without calling, pulls up a chair, and sometimes brings every memory you thought you had safely tucked away. You can be having a perfectly ordinary morning, coffee in hand, when a song begins, or a familiar smell drifts past and suddenly, you are missing someone with your whole body.
There is no tidy schedule for this. Believe me, I would appreciate a little notice.
What I have found is that sometimes, when I cannot explain what hurts, I can write it. A few words on a page give the feeling somewhere to go. And sometimes, someone else has already written the very thing I have been carrying.
That is what I love about poetry. It leaves room for the unfinished sentence, the memory that makes us laugh before it makes us cry, the love we still feel when we can no longer reach the person.
A poem can sit beside us in that silence.
The comfort of feeling understood
There is something tender about finding your own heart in a stranger’s words.
You read a line and pause.
Yes. That. That is what this feels like.
Perhaps you have been trying to explain your sadness. Perhaps you have been keeping it to yourself because you worry people are tired of hearing about it. Then a poem names the ache so plainly that, for a moment, you feel less alone.
I appreciate words that allow me to arrive exactly as I am. Tearful. Angry. Grateful. Confused. Occasionally all four before breakfast.
Grief can hold so many feelings at once. We can be thankful for the love and still furious about the loss. We can enjoy a beautiful afternoon and wish, with everything in us, that someone were there to share it.
There is room on the page for all of that.
Let the words take their time
I don’t think poetry needs to become another task we are supposed to do correctly. Letting our words mirror our emotions in their messy unkempt state gives us and others permission to be human, to let go of the illusion of perfection, and to allow ourselves to grieve.
Goodness knows, we have enough demands
You can read one poem. You can read one line. You can close the book because today it is too much.
If something catches your heart, linger there. Read it aloud and hear how it sounds in your own voice. Write it in a notebook. Ask yourself what it brought to the surface; a memory, a question, something you wish you could say.
You might send it to someone you trust with a simple message:
This is how I’m feeling today.
Sometimes that is an easier beginning than trying to explain everything.
And if your own words begin to come, let them. They do not need to rhyme or behave beautifully. “I miss you, and today I’m angry about it” is a perfectly honest place to begin.
The page can manage a little untidiness.
Find the poem that feels true
Some days, I want words about sunlight through the trees and love carried on the breeze.
Other days, I want someone to acknowledge that this hurts and I would very much like my person back.
Both belong.
The poem that comforts someone else may leave you cold. You are allowed to keep looking. There is no required reading list for a broken heart.
Perhaps you find comfort in faith. Perhaps in nature, humour, or a small ordinary detail: a coat still hanging by the door, a favourite cup, the way someone always sang the wrong words with complete confidence.
Look for the words that let you remember honestly. You do not have to turn someone into a saint to miss them. You can love them, remember their peculiarities, and smile at the things that once drove you slightly mad.
Those things were part of knowing them, too.
When little hearts are grieving beside us
Grief becomes especially tender when children are looking to us for answers we may not have ourselves.
A poem can offer a small way to begin talking. We can read together, ask what a line makes them think of, or write down a favourite memory. A child might prefer to draw while we find the words.
You don't need to produce anything polished.
Maybe the family poem is a collection of things you remember: funny sayings, favourite meals, a warm hand, a ridiculous hat. Maybe you bring it out on a birthday. Maybe you add another line months later.
And if we cry while reading it, we can explain gently: “I’m feeling sad because I miss them.”
We can make room for their sadness and their questions, and still let them run outside to play when they are ready.
A little room for living I am learning that joy can catch us by surprise, too.
A laugh escapes. Music makes us want to dance. We notice something beautiful and, for a moment, enjoy it.
Then sometimes comes that small, uncomfortable question: Am I allowed to feel this good when I have lost so much?
I believe we are.
We can carry love into the life we still have. Remember someone over morning coffee. Tell their stories. Cry on an ordinary Tuesday. Laugh when we recall something only they would have said.
Poetry gives me somewhere to place those moments. Some pages are heavy. Others have a little sunlight on them. I want to leave room for both.
So, if you feel drawn to it, pick up a poem. Or write a few honest words of your own.
Start wherever you are.
Today I remembered…
Today I missed…
Today I laughed, and I wished you could hear me.
That may be enough for one page.
And when you are ready, put the kettle on, open the curtains, and see what the day has waiting.
There is still life here, asking to be lived. 🌼
Comments