Ghosts of griefs past

Math Man has come down with COVID (his first bout) and perforce has been banished to his study as the rest of us have tested negative. He is sleeping on the pull out couch in there, like the Earl of Grantham exiled to his dressing room when he and Cora were out of sorts with each other. Meanwhile Crash and his partner are here, Dr. Math Guy is back from THE big state university bearing his brand-spanking new Ph.D. And it would be nice to all hang together, but here we are.

Mystifyingly I have been on the edge of tears most of the day. It’s been a bit of week and I wondered if it was just a post-graduation, post-travel, post-big tea event reaction. Or perhaps the unbloggable work things. As I headed off to church to be shriven before the big feast, it dawned on me. The ghosts of old griefs have come calling. 

I recalled the first Christmas I spent as a widow, everyone at my parents’ bustling about in Christmas mode, and me, still drenched in grief. Off balance without my husband. Trying to hold up for two as one. And here I am again, trying to do all the stuff minus my partner. From the laundry to the groceries to starting up the humidifier. Picking out a Christmas tree and wrapping the gifts. I know how to do this solo balancing act, but like Marley’s ghost its chains rattle noisily. 

Grief is not linear. It ebbs and flows. And even all these years later, its ghosts can still make an appearance.

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Photo is of a Christmas far in the past.