The Gift

My heart drops, as it often does.  It doesn't take much when I’m tired, or if I hear or see something, for my heart to feel the heaviness.  And then the lump in my throat starts to grow, and I have to swallow hard.  It often happens in public, which makes it worse.  

It's easy to ruminate the loss, but hard to remember the relationship we once shared.  The void easily breaking through the laughter when I turn my head and suddenly hear someone say "mom."  And there goes my heart.  It takes my breath away.  Loss does that, takes it all away.  

I often wonder if anyone around me is grieving and if so, I wish I could tap them gently on their arm and say, “You know, I really miss my mom today.  Please tell me about your loved one.”  We could cry together, or not.  There would be no rules.  But we would share the heaviness in our hearts, the lump in our throat, and the void in our lives.  

My heart is heavy today.  I would give anything to sit next to another griever, just to be with them right now at this moment.  Maybe our shared heaviness would be the beginning of a new friendship.  Either way, it’s a knowing and understanding of another’s pain that empowers the soul.  When two unit and share their pain, there is an undeniable connection.  You don’t even have to speak.  Your souls connect and, in that connection, the heaviness feels just a tiny bit lighter and there is comfort knowing there is someone else in the universe who gets it.  

To all of you who have shared your heaviness with me, I give you my heartfelt love.  For you see, when you share your grief then I feel not as isolated and my pain lessens, if even only for a brief moment.  That moment when we connect and share.  Even when it’s brief, love and compassion and understanding are true gifts.  

Thank you for your gifts, my grieving brothers and sisters.  

With all my love,

Angie Cartwright