When I tuck my head into Owen’s long black hair the strong odor of unwashed oil wafts unwanted into my nose. I pull back and look at him. He smiles at me, wide with plaque coated teeth gleaming off-white. I smile back and resist the immediate urge to chastise him for hygiene. His arms wrap tighter around my middle, head pressing into my diaphragm, content. I breathe the air above him, drawing the fresh scent of the surrounding air and hug him back. He is never the first one to let go. He could hold on all day, lake some carrier monkey attached to my back and secure. I gently release him, making a mental note to insist on a shower and remind him of the importance of shampooing-to-a-lather, but for now I bask in my sons love, unkempt and secure.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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