Grief is a funny, sad emotion. Funny because it creeps up on you at the most unexpected times, and devastates you, takes away all the control you have; sad because- well, that’s obvious. It’s like you’re dancing in a room full of people, and then suddenly you’re alone… It’s a private emotion. No one can share in it. It makes all my old answers seem so childish; it has taken all my defences, all my certitude, and left me with questions only, and helpless. And no matter how I try to thrash it all out in a logical way- you know, I must face my future, make new plans, move on- and all the other inane things I say to myself in times of arrogance- well, those moments still come, with absolute certainty, when the wave crashes over me again, and I’m held in the stillness of knowing.

And it frightens me. I wonder if I’ll ever get past the rawness of the emotion (a major problem, of course, for a scientist: life must remain logical and controlled). I fear that I’ll be stuck in this warp forever. I don’t even let myself fully remember, anymore, because remembering brings back the hopes and expectations; and yet there are times when I must think on things. I can’t help it, I find myself probing at it to see if I missed all the signs.

There are no answers. None at all. Not one. And yet, I am not despondent- no, far from it. The grief is a pure emotion, just agony at the loss, and that’s it. The loss is still devastating. It will probably stay that way forever- how can it not? But in some small ways I have moved on, and rebuilt my paths.

Sometimes, any little thing will bring the tears on- a song, a film, a book, a poem… I no longer have the privilege of talking about it- everyone else moves on before you are ready to. I never had the privilege of control over it: I can’t make it disappear. So I must live with it, coexist with it, if not strict friends then at least acquaintances with a shared knowledge….

A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

(Ben Jonson: A Pindaric Ode).
I am still grateful.