The Faces of Grief

It is the poised and well-dressed women who slumps to the floor, heels discarded, rocking back and forth, wailing, knowing that her son was taken from her too soon.

It is the man, late in life who sobs, who slams his hand on the chair, who then becomes overcome and crawls like a child knowing his wife, who has suffered will find peace without him.

It is the child who is silent, whose tears well but do not spill, who kisses her daddy’s hand and tells him she will see him again someday.

It is the daughter who smiles, who reminisces, who understands that her father would have wanted to die quickly doing what he loved.

The son can only punch the wall and leave a mark, he has no words but anger for his pain. He wants revenge, he wants to know who killed his mother, where is the sick bastard, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, he says, over and over.

It is the wife who is silent, she feels relief. She is finally free to be herself. She is no longer the victim of his tirades, she survived and he didn’t. But the pain is still there, so many things unsaid, so many holes to be mended.

It is the friend, sobbing in the corner, unsure of where to be, who knows more than the family, who can’t share it, won’t share it, will hold the secrets in their heart. Whose pain will be more acute because the phone won’t ring anymore and there will be no more secrets to tell.

It is the lover, the partner, who wasn’t known until now. They pretend to be "just a good friend", but their heart is torn in two. Tears roll unchecked, their body shakes with sobs yet, no one else in the room knows why, and they won’t be able to say, at least not yet, perhaps never, maybe someday.

It is the husband who cries in fear, wondering how he will now care for the children alone. She did everything, she was his soulmate, they just celebrated their 7th anniversary yesterday. Why? She was fine.

The family can only stare in horror and disbelief. They huddle together like animals in a storm, and they are in a storm, the storm of grief, the storm of the unthinkable happening today, tonight, this unbelievable day. What will we do now? What? We don’t understand.

The faces of grief are never alike, they wail, they seethe, they smile, they are shocked. They are tearful, serene, and beyond words. They eventually take on a recognizable appearance that others are more comfortable with though the heart and soul looks for recognition in it’s weakened state. The body seeks relief, the mind continually questions the rationality of death, the taking of one who is loved, one who is hated, one who had no one but somehow still touches us. It is in touching us that we begin the search for the meaning of that which was taken, to start answering the questions we never thought to ask, to explore the topics never put into words. Death touches the face and reshapes it, each person a different mask, a mask that in time can seek reshaping into beauty or remain contorted in pain.