Grief is in your toothbrush. It won’t come out, no matter how you rinse. You keep tasting it, sharper than toothpaste. Go ahead and throw the brush out. Get a new one. It makes no difference. Grief is in every toothbrush ever made.
Grief is in your shoes, making them heavy. Grief is in your shoes, hurting your feet.
Grief is in the hairs on your forearms.
You are a grief-burning engine, using it all up and coughing out … What else but more grief?
You learn a new kind of math. Grief math. Grief minus grief equals grief.
Grief slimes your water glass. Grief slimes the front steps.
Grief makes a messy sandwich and chews with its mouth open. Grief sauce oozes out and drips down Grief’s stubbly chin.
Grief is five o’clock shadow all day long.
You wonder: Is this grief even mine anymore? Or do I belong to it? It doesn’t seem to matter.
Try to meet it with kindness, even though that means it will take off its shoes and its stinky feet will make your house smell like gorgonzola forever. And it will pull up a chair and tell its tiresome story over and over again. Grief is boring. Grief has dead eyes and a raspy voice.
You want to pull your own eyeballs out and throw them at grief. You want to scream until everyone knows who’s got the raspiest voice.
When you put your socks on, there’s grief in the toes. All day long, nothing feels right.
Grief clogs your nose. Grief clogs the toilet.
Grief is underfoot like a hungry cat. It trips you up and makes you fall down the stairs. Grief is a lousy dancer. It flails its arms and smacks you in the face.
Grief is both your arms in slings, and your legs in casts. And nobody to help you into the wheelchair, let alone push you anywhere.
And yes, grief does make you look fat. Grief, like the camera, adds ten pounds. Or grief whittles you away to nothing, and you snap like a toothpick.
Grief is toothpicks under your skin, and dust in your eyes, and sand in your teeth. Which makes you think of all those damn toothbrushes again.
Nothing will ever be right.