A talk with Grief

Grief. I speak of you often but fear to open my eyes to peer into your depths. I know you want to be seen, you want to be felt, you need to be heard. I attempt to turn my back to you, a fantasy in which you do not exist.
 Now, under the warmth of this prayer shawl, given to me but a fellow griever, I will sit with you. I will lean into you and understand that beneath the terror, the trauma, you are the remnants of love. The fragments of memories, hopes, and dreams, you are what is left behind.
Honestly, you have made me softer, not weaker, but a soft place for others to lay their grief. You have given me understanding, compassion. You are unbearable and have left my heart gaping. Though you are heinous and to some unspeakable, I have also learned from you. One day grief, I will sit with other's who face you, I will show them the things I have learned. I will be a safe space.
You are a fire, one that I can warm myself with, with bittersweet memories, and cry tears of love. You are also a fire that can destroy me if I let you, you could swallow me whole and leave other's to grieve. For now, I need to fold up my shawl of comfort and put you back on your shelf. You are too much for me to handle all at once, I will take bits of you and work through you, let you work through me. A little a time, so that you will never consume me again.