practicing the presence of loss

I'm not sure how it is that others grieve, but I notice that I'm an extremist. I can go for days, weeks, months where loss feels like a distant sadness, far off over the mountain where I can just see it past the peak. I imagine an isolated mountain meadow, wildflowers in bloom, with a small mound and a white cross marking the moment I realized a friendship, a lover, a dream, a cat was gone. If I wanted, I could reach the spot. It would require a day's hike at least - two, if I'm ambling, but with some considerable effort, I could get there.

Then there are these moments, unexpected and expected at the same time. A kind word of condolence, a familiar song, or the mention of the departed's name can transport me to the grave in a split second. No preparation, no ten essentials. Boom! Here I am, instantly attired in black and veil, surrounded in this quiet lonely place in the alpine peak wilderness, tears flowing down my face. Sometimes I'm hyperventilating; sometimes, in the transport, the wind gets knocked out of me.

Even though I can recognize my own patterns of grief and loss, I feel somewhat guilty that Meshach's death already feels like it's a safe distance away, buried in the part of the world that would take some effort to reach. Sometimes I forget he is gone; sometimes I forget he was ever here. Peppered within this altered reality are these one-minute bursts of emotions, characterized by a gutteral yelp and a flood of tears. In the car, the bus, with a friend, at home. They last about 60 seconds; and by the time my face is dry, I've already forgotten what made me feel so sad.