Grief has already arrived. He was not invited, but he came anyway. He stands swaying in the shadows during slow songs, twirling his drink patiently. Waiting. I glance sideways sometimes and see him, but do not meet his gaze or acknowledge him. I will not offer a chair or refill. He will not share our meals or join us on walks around the neighborhood. He stays in the shadows until I must speak directly to him. I didn’t realize he would arrive so early, but I refuse to rush. So I curl up on your shoulder and listen to you breathe. I slow my own inhale and exhale, and pray each night. Common prayers, mundane pleas from a tiny life. Grief can stand there while the ice in his glass slowly melts and droplets slide down the outside, shadows enveloping him like a coming storm. He may be imposing, but he need not be welcomed. We lay in this bed as another day begins, blue jays squawking, spring light tumbling through tree leaves one more time, the cat stretched and yawning beside us.
You had never heard of Sylvia Plath until you read about her in a hard-covered, non-fiction book you bought at the airport in Arizona. The slight mispronunciation of her last name, the mild interest in how this strange, suicidal poet was woven into a book about miscommunication with strangers. This seemed oddly delightful to me. You never experienced Plath’s poems, read much too young grief, confusion, raw, open-mouthed pain all there in tiny, neat font on the page, an abstract fear that your happy childhood, your seemingly effortless life could not understand. Sylvia Plath poems HBO movies late at night Those magazines under Mr. Babcock’s bed that you found while babysitting his sweet son only a few years younger than you. I curl my toes around yours, under our warm covers and rest next to you, quiet pages turning, as you peer through your reading glasses at the life of Sylvia Plath neatly placed in context.
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