I don’t need an aphrodisiac, no wine to marinate my sorrows, no pill to swallow away the pain, no plant to inhale and numb. My grief is sensual. It pulsates through my body, coursing its way from the lump in my throat sliding down like burning butter to the place that remembers. I remember. My tears drip like small porous pearls that flow down and form droplets of passion and desire. Images of times spent intertwined flash through my mind like the fingers of fog that run over the mounds of Mount Tamalpais as I drive my car around the bends and curves of the road, like the touches that slowly outlined my hips and legs to the places that knew sweet release.
My mouth remembers the fullness. My head pounds with the music, beats and gyrations of times past. I tap my nails on the steering wheel as I weave my way closer to the water’s edge as the sunset seduces and my pain and thoughts of ecstasy explode into a million shards of glass that cut deep to the core of a broken heart.
Some may call me dramatic and they might be right. But I’m glad my grief teases and taunts. There was a time when I would reach for the cold crisp glass of cool relief and the searing pain would be frozen in time. I would wade into waters of sadness without sensation and days would go by where I would go through the motions and never have to feel a thing.
Stone cold sober is the best way to grieve. There’s no messing around when I allow the waves of agony to throb in the secret recesses of my body and soul. Cellular memories come to life when there are no fixes, no Band-Aids to dull the senses, no pain pills to lull me into silent and dreamless slumber.
Loss is best experienced in its naked glory. It comes fast and furious and leaves a blaze of golden fiery dust like the shooting star that cares not where its destiny lies.
I awake in the cold morning with hot breath. I startle at the sound of my own soft moaning. My pillow is wet and stained with tears that fell during the night, like the midnight snow that came unannounced and surprised. No hangover flattens and I find relief in that. Feeling sad is better than feeling nothing at all.
I play with my grief and appreciate its lessons learned. Sometimes I’m tempted to use the aid of an amnesiac. I remember how easy it would be to fall back to patterns old and misused. Relief is only a short drive away.
But stone cold sober is the way I like my grief. Straight up. On the jagged rocks of my ragged heart. Real. Stark.
It’s the place where I know I’m fully alive. Life and the sun invite me like the gentle nudge of a lover when there is no fog to shroud.
The grief walks hand in hand with me and I know I am not alone.
Inspired by Loss and This