The Fifth Stage of Grief

I wanted to know you were gone.

I wanted it to be easier when your make, model, and color car passed me on the road. I wanted my stomach to stop reaching for my throat when certain songs came on in coffee shops. I wanted to be sure it was not you when someone your height with grey hair was waiting on the other side of a crosswalk.

I could not handle one more sickening and brief moment of wondering whether it was you. I wanted to know, once and for all, that you were gone, because you are.

I waited for so long. The best I can compare it to is Christmas Eve as a child. Waking in the middle of the night, the morning so close, but not quite there — that mixed feeling of excitement and nausea. And yet, on Christmas morning you eventually wake to toy-store wishes wrapped in patterned paper, stockings with candy, a plate with half-chewed cookies and carrots. The comfort of tradition. This other kind of waiting ends in unraveling. This other kind of tradition is one we all partake in, but a sense of uniformity rarely occurs.

Death is inevitable, but different, for everyone. I waited for someone who could not come.

There were so many moments I expected to see you. A bar we used to go to. Leaving the restaurant where we worked together. Walking with her.