Grief Digest Articles

I woke up and rolled to the right side of my bed. My skin brushed over the rumples of my fitted bed sheet. I pulled a corner from the edge of the mattress sometime during the night. While digging through the corners of my eyes with my pinky finger, I turned off the alarm set on my iPhone, which was laying on dresser drawer. I pushed myself out of bed, one foot touching the hardwood floor, another stepping on the pair of dirty boxers.The gray shine from the street light outside my window skated o …

I am a widow, and the word feels alien but good. I accept and fiercely hold onto the label, because this particular label marks my condition, and my widowhood is a condition. Body rhythms slow, life flat-lines, and everything feels wrong. I no longer recognize myself. My hair grows long and gray, my spine hunches, and my skin is deeply etched with tears. I am now Crone.In Crone’s world, laughter is replaced with silence, and time is measured in se-conds. Daily routine is completely demolished. T …

As I fly my kiteI think of youIt’s one of the thingsTogether we would doIn that mindless momentI wonder whyAs I watch that kiteDance in the skyWhy can’t you beHere with meThe reason for thisI just can’t seeOr why can’t I goTo where you areIt really doesn’t matterIf it’s near of farIt would seem to meTo be hard to seeThat kite in the skyWith tears in my eyesIf I fly that kiteAs high as it will goCould you write a noteOn it to let me knowIf I kissed that kiteAnd set it to flightWould it reach you …

Sometimes along the path of grief, we experience mysterious moments—times in which we have thoughts that change our story of grief. These “aha” moments allow us to see our loss in a new way. They help to make meaning out of our suffering, offering healing and hope. Here is such a story about a mother’s loss of her son.Mary Alice opened her worn, red leather billfold and withdrew the old photograph of a thin, sick toddler in denim overalls. Her son had died before his second birthday, and she had …

Life was so easy that first summer that Tom and I were married. During the summer evenings, we would leash the dog and take off for a walk in the dark because we could not get enough of the luxurious nights. The whippoorwills and barred owls sung from the trees, as we wended our way under the verdant arching branches. “It hurts,” my nine-year-old son Spenser said. He pointed to his thorax region. His pale face, shrouded by darkness, expressed no intense pain. Neither did his voice. Instead, his …