It’s six in the morning when you receive the news. Groggily, you answer the unexpected phone call, frowning at the incessant and desperate buzzing. You sit up, rubbing at your eyes to chase the sleep away. All it takes is the single press of a button for your entire world to fall apart. 

Perhaps that is not how you remember it. Maybe you were there to see it happen, or maybe someone gently grasped your hands and looked at you with teary eyes. But, you remember the pain, how grief slowly trickled into your chest until you could no longer breathe. It pulls you under, drowning you.

Grief is like water.

At first, it takes the form and strength of a tsunami. It overwhelms the sky, taunting the last bits of peace you clutch onto tightly, until it suddenly crashes into the ground. It tears away at the foundations you’ve built and mercilessly wrenches you into its surging waters. You cannot breathe; you cannot hear; you cannot see. All you know is that your arms and legs become numb to the cold that continues to pull you under. You start to wonder whether this is just a nightmare that you can’t seem to wake from.

You don’t know how long you’ve been underwater. Days? Weeks? Months? Even years?

You stare at the wall as you begin to drift deeper underwater. When was the last time you saw them? What did they say? Did you say “I love you” that time? Were they happy? Why weren’t you able to go see them? Why didn’t you take that extra time to see them? Why didn’t you call them that night? Did they know that you wanted to see them again? Were they scared in those final moments? Were they loved? 

You remember their smile and the way it used to warm you up. You remember the funny quirk they had that made you chuckle. You remember the texture of their hands that held you when you were frightened. You remember their voice that soothed your worries away. Your mind becomes a broken record of memories as it flits through all the joys they brought you. It must be a joke, albeit one in poor taste, you reason with yourself. They’re still here, sitting on the worn out couch, waiting for you to come home. They’re still humming their favorite song under their breath as they cook. They’re still tuning in every day to watch the old-timey show they’ve raved to you about.  You want to stay there, in the delusion that they’re still here with you. You want to cry and scream, but you find yourself unable to lift a finger, much less get out of bed.

You are unaware of the hand that grows closer to your floating form underwater. 

Heaving for air, you grasp at the hand that pulls you out. They do not let go as you continue to tremble. With shaky breaths, you sit in silence as they caress your head, murmuring prayers and condolences under their breath. They are your sister, your brother, your aunt, your pastor, or even your neighbor, but it doesn’t matter. You become painfully aware of the coarse cotton of their clothes underneath your clammy hands. “I’m so sorry,” they whisper. You remember their smile, now tight lipped, and their voice, now silent, sealed and stuffed inside a lifeless box. The warmth of the delusion you were under drips away, leaving the cold reality to seep in. A familiar feeling starts to settle in your chest, and you scream.

Soon, it becomes like the tide. Some days, the tide is calm.  You smile and laugh with the feeling of water lingering behind you, until the water reaches out to you, much stronger than before. You freeze, wondering when the feeling would go away. People assure you that eventually, one fateful day in the far future, you will learn to let it go, but, as you stand in front of their grave, fingers tracing over the wooden carving that is their name, it starts to rain. You wipe away the droplet running down your cheek, and the tsunami takes form once more. 

Instead of being under the constant warmth of the sun, you remain surrounded by water. Some days it’s like the tide; some days it’s like the tsunami; some days you are underwater. But, you learn how to swim as the water constantly changes and shifts. You learn to keep your head above water. But the water will remain clinging onto your form as days go by. You accept the reality that the promised fateful day in the far future will never come. You simply learn to follow the crashing rhythm of the waves of grief.

In your heart, mind, and memories – it stays.