3 years ago today I sat in a scalding bath with candles lit and my “Mellow Days” playlist on full blast. I sat there for awhile, for hours, in the darkness with only the light being the dancing flames and the occasional phone screen with yet another text message saying “are you okay?” and “can I get you anything?”.
It’s cliche and overstated, but it’s true, grief is weird. Sometimes, you spend so long in the bath that your fingers are pruny to the point that they ache. Sometimes, you look out the window while driving through the snowy mountains thinking about brighter days. It tends to come around on the significant days. The birthdays, the anniversary. But sometimes it comes out of nowhere when you are driving down the highway and you have to pull over just to breathe.
I’m not sure where I first heard this analogy, but it compared grief to a ball inside a box. Inside the box, there is a red button. At first, the ball is so large that it takes up almost the entire box and is constantly pushing the red button. Over time, the ball gets smaller. As it gets smaller, it bounces around and sometimes finds the red button.
Well, today, the ball found the button.
No, I’m not spending the day locked in a bathroom with swollen eyes and an endless supply of tear ducts. Instead, I am scrolling through photos, looking at the clouds, searching for butterflies and reaching out to loved ones. While today’s scenario is very different than 3 years ago, the pain is all the same. The button is still there. And I miss my sister.
