Grief Redux

Out of nowhere torrential tears pour forth, swathing my face, until inexplicably they taper into bleak drip-drips, then stop.  I never know when to expect the sobs or wails to visit, leaving me in a soggy state. It just happens.  Wait.  That's not exactly right.  Sometimes, utter loneliness creeps in on "little cat's feet" and the spigot opens.  I borrowed the phrase from Illinois Poet Laureate Carl Sandburg, except he was describing fog.  Other times not.

Indeed, sometimes I walk around in a dense, cruel fog that seems to smother my feelings and leave abject hopelessness in its wake.  No sunshine anywhere.  No matter how urgently I engage in self-talk, nothing I say can bring Courtney back to this earth plane.  I can hear her say "Hey, Ma" crystal-clearly, but they're only sounds in my memory.  I can conjure up pictures of her, when it's not too painful, but they are flat, one-dimensional, lifeless.

Why do I torture myself this way? I think these one-sided conversations that I initiate are worse.  Sometimes, it's not enough to say "I miss you, Courtney," in my head.  No! I go into a long-winded description of my day or week, or something.  Why don't I wait to hear from her? Hmm. 

Surely I have sisters and friends I could call, but what would I say to them? "I've been thinking about Courtney a lot lately." What can they do but murmur words that attempt to comfort but can't reach the ache, the lonely place, that's worse than an itch that can't be scratched?  Because their voices aren't the one I want to hear.   There's nothing they can say, really.

Songs always bring comfort, so I seek solace by "singing" (remember, I'm tone deaf) lyrics like: "There'll be peace in the valley for me someday, There'll be peace in the valley for me.  I pray no more sorrow and sadness or trouble will be, There'll be peace in the valley for me."