Loss

At first she will count the hours, then the days. Even when the single days turn into double-digits, she will count the weeks, just as she did—as we all did—when newly pregnant; when every few days marked a milestone. Now the fetus is the size of a peanut, a hand. Now the fetus has 10 toes. Now it is sucking its thumb.

It didn’t matter that the weeks became months. We counted them as weeks, digestible strips of time, rows of days that we crossed off the calendar, steps in our metamorphosis.

Pregnancy redefined us, as will widowhood.

But pregnancy is finite. Grief has no endpoint. It does not progress in a straight line. It creeps, it zigzags, it stalls. For every inch forward, there are several more, back.

Now it has been just two days without him. One week ago he was here. Two weeks ago we were singing Beatles’ songs. Four weeks ago we were laughing. 

She will fall into fitful sleep and awaken with temporary amnesia, momentarily light, until reality crashes down.

We held them close, together, and we hold her close, now. And we shudder, knowing that we could be next. Her grief breaks our hearts. And it humbles us.