I often cry when I remember him. It is common for me to tear up when he enters the conversation, which he does quite a lot. Of course he does. He is deeply embedded in the story of us, after all.
And while his name easily rolls off my tongue, the act of speaking it still can bring an automatic physical outpouring of both love and loss.
Gently clouding my eyes, these human tears run tandem with his name. They hold vigil for this giant we lost.
You see, he is a part of me, and so are my tears.
And tears, my friend, were never meant to be a litmus test for whether or not grief deserves acknowledgment.
They are, rather, watering of the soil in which loss and joy grow beautifully from. And that is a lovely thing to pause on.
But, inevitably, in day-to-day meanderings, loss enters the chat. My tears subsequently well up, and discomfort, that universal existence, immediately arrives. I watch as people fumble in not easily treaded waters. They meet me with a quick “I’m sorry,” their unsure footing palpable.
And it’s okay. It’s all okay.
But what I would like to propose is this: A paramount grief should never be left unspoken or apologized for.
A loss this big carried love enough for a lifetime, and that is worth being center stage on the trophy shelf of our life until our last breath.
So, yes, I will acknowledge the apology, but I will quickly respond with an invitation.
“No,” I will easily tell you. “Do not apologize. He was a lovely human, the best I’ve ever known, and I love talking about him.”
The response is typically a quiet, simple nod of the head.
And it’s all okay, and it’s also all not okay.
But, show me, will you, what in life is ever not messy? What in life is ever not bathed in light while also wearing a coat of shadows?
Tears and pain and grief. Love and joy and beauty. They all thread veins through everyone’s fragile skin.
So. Do not apologize.
Instead, pick up the grief in gentle, brave hands and speak the names of the ones who no longer reside as humans. Ask the questions. Their names are not an elephant in the room or an untouchable entity, because you see, they remain in the room for the ones who carry their absence. They sit right there beside them. Always.
So, please, ask the questions. Speak the name of what was never made to be tucked away or spoken of only in whispers.
For when you do, you are not dredging up a wound that has been buried. You are simply entering into an existing, very alive story, and the story is full of beauty.
So, please. Come on in.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Her View From Home 
by Lauren Flake 
