The early days of grief are brutal. Stand by, my friend.

In my early days my mother descended and wouldn't leave, preventing my howling and wailing and weeping until I watched her taking her suitcase out of my truck bed.

I got busy then.

I scared myself with my own intensity. It took so long to find myself, my place, my integrity, my grit, my desire for more than to weep and howl and wail.

Nothing was lost in these expressions. Not a single thing.

I slept on concrete trying to find equilibrium.

Almost twenty years later, I no longer have to wait for the way I feel to evolve. All I ever had to do was allow for evolution.

It isn't just a waiting game. Some of grief is letting time provide some padding.

Keep writing.