Word vomit

The grief squad.

The four of us cling onto each other, forming the grief squad. Our days fall into a familiar routine: cleaning, sorting, crying, convincing each other to eat, forced evening walks and sporadic (somewhat guilty) laughter, usually when we discover a hidden memory we can share with the rest that we had long forgotten about.

We voice every single one of our thoughts out loud; we are walking streams of consciousness, each one of us narrating throughout the menial tasks of the day. The bank visits; the calls to the coroner; debating the pros and cons of various local crematoriums; casting votes on the ceramic urn with the red rose versus the simple brass one with the pearl overlay; and avoiding daily calls from concerned relatives with too much time on their hands. Everything becomes monumentally important, so that we can momentarily take our minds off of the fact that we are all drowning.

When one of us falls down in sobs, the remaining members of the grief squad rush to their side, knowing their turn is likely coming next.

And when it comes, even with all that support, it is still too much to bear.


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