"On Grieving" essay by Mollie K. in Tennessee

When you lose someone you love, they take a chunk of you with them – the part that always depended on them to be there. Time hangs heavy and you're restless. Friends and family are comforting during the first little while, but soon they go back to their own lives and you must face up to the fact that you're alone now.

You feel like a marshmallow afloat in the ocean, knowing hungry things are circling just below the surface. You must learn to swim solo now. You watch the game show channel or a soap opera to escape the silence in the house. Getting dressed seems like too much trouble. You aren't hungry but you know you should eat, so you grab whatever is handy – a peanut butter sandwich, a frozen entrée, something left over from the funeral dinner a lifetime ago. The bills must be paid, too. And what's all this paperwork from the insurance company, the funeral director, Social Security, Medicare, the bank, his investments? You shuffle a lot of paper and make phone calls and wonder about your own financial future. You worry about your health, too. You haven't had a thorough physical exam in years. You submit to the required indignities and find you're in pretty good shape for someone in their seventies. You feel a little better, having put that to rest.

We each grieve in our own way, so maybe you've neglected the housework – or maybe you've already gone through the house like a tornado because you couldn't stand to see reminders of how things used to be. Either way, the trash is piling up and the grass needs mowing. You take the car in for a check and the mechanic asks if you want him to perform services you've never heard of. He's happy to explain and you wonder if he's trying to take you for a different kind of ride. You get everything done so you won't have to worry about it.

The walls begin to close in, so you go to the mall for an afternoon. Wandering aimlessly around the store, you realize there is no one to buy for and there's nothing you really need, anyway. You go home feeling out of place, like you shouldn't have gone there at all. Life goes on, taking you more or less willingly along. The days fill up with necessary things and after a while you decide to do something just for yourself – maybe a cruise, but you don't want to share a room with a stranger. You spend time with the grandchildren. Maybe you go to church or join an organization or do something helpful to others. You could take a class or learn scrapbooking. But here's the bottom line. The emptiness never goes away. You distract yourself to whatever degrees you can but you know deep down that you've been changed in ways you couldn't have anticipated.

Time passes. It's harder to do the housework now and you wonder about assisted living. At least there would be someone to talk with. But the nest egg is a little short. Maybe you can find someone chatty to come in once a week who isn't interested in your jewelry chest or the silver flatware. The children want you to make final arrangements. But the insurance policy you've been saving for that purpose doesn't go as far as expected. Well, you never liked flowers and music anyway. It has to be done, so you sign next to the X. One more thing off your list. One day you're standing in the kitchen and feel a little dizzy. Next thing you know, you're on the floor with a broken chair beside you. How did that happen? You don't remember falling, but now there's an electric pain in your hip. Good thing the kids bought the call button last year for Christmas. You push it and wait a long time for the ambulance, siren notifying the neighbors that something has happened. You know they're watching like vultures between the slats of their miniblinds. Not one of them has rung your doorbell or spoke with you on the phone since the funeral. The EMTs hand you your purse and a personal phone directory before a shot of morphine takes you off to la-la land. After the surgery you're in a nursing home six weeks for rehab. It really isn't so bad because you have a roommate with most of her marbles intact and the young therapist is hot.

Your daughter takes a few days vacation and flies in to get you through the first week at home. She cleans the house from top to bottom. The pantry is stocked. There is fresh fruit on the kitchen table and a salad in the fridge. The car has been washed. It's overwhelming. You begin to cry, and she puts her arms around you. "You took care of me," she says. You talk about money in the future, give her power of attorney and a copy of the will and feel relieved that she'll share responsibility. You watch her drive away and wonder when you'll see her again. Another Christmas, the fifth since he died. It seems like a long time since then and again it only seems like yesterday. But the tree is up, presents are wrapped, cookies are baked, and the house will be full of life tomorrow. Preparations have made you tired and you sit by the kitchen window to rest.

Snow has begun to fall in the yellow glow of the streetlamp while you watch. Its quiet ambience makes you smile. You think of each snowflake as a moment in someone's life, falling perfectly into place beside the next. They do not live long, the snowflakes, and you understand at last that all things happen in their own time. Life unfolds as it should, you will live as long as you should, and that will be enough.