Grief is said to come in waves. I’ve found this to be true. It’s a helpful image, and intuitive, maybe because we ourselves are such watery beings, gestating in water and made of it, consuming it, bathing in it and dressing wounds with it for our entire lives. Thinking of grief as a series of waves helps me navigate (which is to say, anticipate and ride) the periodic swells, and how they crest, and how they break against you, and then recede.
This past July marked five years since my dad died. And yes, there were waves, just as there have been on every anniversary
It’s important to remember, though, that the actual process of grieving runs its course differently for everyone. In the week after my dad died, there were days when I spent hours lying in bed watching the sky, thinking absolutely nothing at all, just feeling, feeling a silent, dense sadness, while others were able to enjoy tv or cook a meal or make phone calls. And vice versa.
There’s another reason we feel grief in different ways (or, put differently, at different times): though I suppose there is a single, exact moment of death, the moment we mark someone’s death may be different from how our loved ones do.
For instance, we don’t know exactly when my dad died. He died alone, and his body was alone for several days before anyone knew. The coroner gave us a…
