Grief is like a gorilla

And now, grief is like a gorilla. Massive, strong, solid, sometimes silent—it lies still and rests—and sometimes loud—it howls and beats its chest. It can be sluggish and clumsy or nimble and sharp. And, as if I am the dead one, grief holds me and shakes my lifelessness with puzzled eyes, and pokes at me and nudges me and reminds me that yes, Living without my child is incomprehensible—impossible, but that I still have to breathe.

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