grief, why so suddenly?

It's been here for a few days now, that dull, barely-perceptible ache that comes for just a few seconds here or there.

The remembering that Grandpa's gone. For good; for the rest of my life Grandpa is gone. I guess, I didn't see him all that much so not seeing him now--even sleeping in his bed, or sitting in his chair or gazing at his bookshelves--isn't that weird. Hasn't been that strange. But it's the remembering that he's never coming back...that's he's not the one on a trip far away but he's home and we're still pilgrims....that's what's hard.


Tonight, I tried to hold back tears when Grandma and I watched the Waltons and the family passed Grandpa Walton's grave, telling him something, lingering. And now, as I write, I cry, because tears can be cathartic and part of me mourns that I've kept the grief inside.

That night he went to the hospital, the wee hours of the 17th of December, walking out of that hospital room and seeing the Christmas lights and hearing songs that said Christmas was all about being with those you love.

The cutting up fruit and vegetables in the morning before the hospital, only thing I knew to do, only because other hospital times meant babies for mom and me playing in charge for a few days.

The every inside trumpet joke reminding of the last strains at Grandpa's bedside.

The widow's burden become our own, we find receiving in our giving.

And this is the hiding of tears, the closing of the book of grief, the knowing I'll see Grandma in just a few minutes and for her I must be strong.