JUNE 8
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREGrief hangs on and on, and some days we think we will
never come out from under its shadow.
Sometimes we have no choice. It hits us like a physical
blow, and it takes us a long time to get our breath back.
But sometimes we do have a choice. It’s well to be re-
minded of that, though we may resist the notion, think-
ing—There is no grief like this. How could I possibly move away
from it?
But perhaps we could. It’s at least worth trying—to lay
aside for a while the pall which has covered us since we lost
our loved one.
Visualize lifting a heavy shroud from your head and
shoulders, folding it carefully, tucking it away tenderly on
a closet shelf, closing the door, and walking away.
Now (if no one’s looking to wonder what on earth you’re
doing!) pantomime this action with your body. Go
ahead—lift the heavy cloth, fold it, get up and walk to a
closet and lay it on a shelf. Then close the door, lean against
the door for a minute. And walk away.
And for a while, at least, savor the reality of this day, this
summer day.
I do have some choice about when grief is primary in my life.