Bearable
Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around.
It’s known as an “out of order death” when you lose a child.
It is the worst jolt I have ever experienced.
Experience.
My understanding is that this grief will not “go away.” For as long as you love, you will grieve, they say.
It’s good and bad news.
I’m told it becomes more bearable. You learn how to carry the weight.
(I prefer that encouragement much more than the other attempts, which employ phrases like “you will get over it one day.”)
As I drifted off to sleep last night, I thought of that idea—that tempting hope—of bearability — and an image came to mind. I’m old enough to remember when suitcases had no wheels. Just a handle on top with which you could try and schlep what might feel like a refrigerator.
And then I thought of a backpack and how much less burdensome that can feel—even with the same contents. The weight might be the same, but it’s more doable.
Bearable.
Even if the bearer stands slightly stooped.
Or sits.
Their arms are free to embrace.
“Melancholy” sculpture by Albert György