Assault

Grief can knock you down like a Mack truck. It can take your heart out of your body and slam it on the ground without a second thought, and when it's happening to you, you couldn't care less. "Take my heart," you think. "It's not my heart anymore anyway." You walk around your daily life numb with exhaustion. You hope people will leave you alone mostly. I wanted to sit in the corner with a blanket over my head most of the time, but I didn't. I went to work, cooked dinner, fielded stupid comments about how lucky I was to be so close to my brother, worked about 100 jigsaw puzzles, watched NCIS reruns, and withdrew into myself as far as I could.

There have been moments, even days, when I don't feel the grief. But then, in a moment, it's back - not it's big bad self, armed to destroy me, but so subtle I never see it coming. Every time.

It might be Tom's shirt, or dad's whistling on a record. It could be a picture of Papa bill or Uncle Jack. But it's just as likely to be something ordinary, like walking out the front door. Small things, everyday moments. Music.

It sneaks up behind me, throwing one arm around my body so I can't move. The other reaches reaches around to cover my mouth. My heart gasps before I do. A jolt of pain, then a slow remembering. "He's gone." "Gone." It pushes me through a door I don't want to open and leaves me there.

I squint in the darkness, but I know where I am. I used to almost like it here, this womb of sadness. It seemed like the right place to be, almost sacred. Alone with nothing but the comfort of my grief. And Tom. Boy Tom. Cool, funny, art, music Tom. Brother.

Now, I'm not so sure.