July 7, 2014
Grief is sneaky.
On a day that is filled with life there are sometimes little reminders of death.
They hide in the corners and crevices and they slip out when they're least expected.
Like in the middle of an act where your husband is dressed like a Russian gymnastics coach and is sporting the worst but best mullet wig since mullets were real. After laughing until you hurt at kids twirling and dancing and making jokes that only they understand. Sometimes a little girl comes on stage.
And sometimes she dedicates a song to her dad. And sometimes it's the very same song that your husband and your only daughter ever danced to.
And out of the crevices and corners the grief comes. Sometimes slowly one tear at a times but sometimes like a floodgate burst open.
You look around the room and find a way to escape before anyone notices.
Because you didn't think it would happen today, at least not right in the middle of the camp talent show.
But that's grief sometimes. And sometimes you wish it away. And sometimes you let it stay, because it reminds you that you mourn over the loss of something so very wonderful, someone so very beautiful. And then you don't mind.
But still, there was no warning.
Oh, sneaky, sneaky grief.
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