Grief is an awkward box to hold.
You can't quite wrap your arms around it,
the same way you can't wrap
your brain around the idea that your loved one is gone.
You decide to strap it to your back,
maybe that’ll make it easier to carry.
But then it just weighs you down,
compresses your spine.
You try and set it down for a while,
perhaps even abandon it for a bit.
But you feel like a guilty parent
who left their child at home;
the box becomes all you can think about,
despite the attempt to briefly distance yourself from it.
Sometimes you try to unpack it,
take out its contents, piece by piece.
You look at each one, dust it off.
But when it comes time to pack it up again, none of it fits.
You have to jam it all inside and shake, shake, shake
‘til all the small pieces find a home at the bottom.
Because as tiring as the box is, it encases your grief,
and is therefore a home.
Sometimes it breaks and everything pours out.
It’s a lousy box.
It’s held together with masking tape and is creased at the corners.
It’s a pain to carry, it’s cumbersome.
It’s not neatly packaged for others to understand.
It’s not just memories and tears.
It’s rage and confusion and shattered pieces.
It’s ugly and it’s cold.
It’s loud and a constant hum.
But it’s all you have tethering you to your loved one.
It’s all the love packaged up but with no address to send it to.
Sometimes you use it as a step stool or a night stand.
You try to repurpose it, but it’s still a ratty old box.
You throw it down a flight of stairs
only to chase after it and lug it back up
because it’s all you have left.
by Lucy Reid
