Hello Grief..

We are home.
The coffeed up alleyways of Melbourne and the bittersweet familiarity of Sydney offered us a kind reprieve from real life. But we are home.  We walked in the front door yesterday and real life was waiting- with a pile of letters addressed to the estate of the late Sheldon Gakowski.
Real life was waiting- with the phone calls I had to make to institutions that require a certified death certificate before they talk to me.
Real life.

I despise these real life days.
And yet I embrace them.
I have to.
Sheldon spoke about these days often... preparing me,  encouraging me... willing me to face them with the same determination and peace that has marked all the days before this new real life.

He knew me so well.
He knew,  and told me often,  that I'd be OK.
It would make me crazy cranky when he would start to talk about these real life days that I would live without him here.
I would get snappy at him...accuse him of being cruel and heartless whenever he would chat about how ok he knew I'd be without him. Didn't he know that I'd be useless?  A hopeless mess? He'd roll his eyes and dismiss the picture of abject despair that I would paint.
And he'd paint me a new picture.
One where I'd be OK.
One where I'd go back to work.
One where I'd remember which day is bin day.

I realise now that it was his great love for me that motivated those conversations. He wanted to remind me that I can do this.
Because he knew that on that day that I came home and real life assaulted me in it's realness,  I'd want to run again. I'd want to turn tail and be anywhere else.
And as I stood in the lounge room yesterday,  one hand holding my suitcase and the other clutching the pile of mail, I didn't think I had it in me to be at home.
And just as I was about to say "nope... let's not stay. Who fancies a road trip to Perth??", I remembered one of those conversations that I hated.
It was a few weeks before he went.
He was tired and fading.
We were sitting outside,  enjoying the morning sun.
He just said it straight-
"You'll miss me..."
I looked at him and looked away. I wasn't prepared to have another conversation about my grief.
Silence stretched out. And then this:
"Just don't forget to feed the cat while you miss me... And water the garden. "

That's this grief.
My grief in real life.
Missing him.
Looking for him still.
Feeling ripped off.
Knowing that something precious and treasured was stolen right out of my hands. But then this grief is doing the missing and the looking while I pay the bills.
And while I parent.
And while I prepare to go back to work.

This grief.
It colours these new real life days.
It tones and tinges them.

I thought it would be a weight,  heavy around my neck. The heavy weight of a crushing grief.
Here's the dramatic in me. The all-too-concious of what social expectation demands of the 35 year old widow.
I wondered at a "grieving period", complete with an all black wardrobe. (Yes,  I watched Gone with the Wind alot!)
This grieving time... a window of time that I would set aside to grieve. And my imaginings had me distraught and useless.
So consider my surprise when I discovered that there is no specific and clear mourning period. No start and no definitive finish point.
And, hello, I wear alot of black but blue and grey were the colors I found myself decked out in these past few football crazed weeks.
Consider my surprise when I didn't feel the weight of useless grief,  but instead felt like laughing at the antics of my boys as they discovered Melbourne.
This grief is not relegated to a certain number of days. It ebbs. It swirls.
Sometimes it pushes. So ferocious in it's determination to announce itself. And yet sometimes it's silent. And I feel....normal. I feel ok.
This grief.
It's beautiful.
And it's horrendous.
It's testament to the immense love that I shared with him.
It's a tribute to the joy and the frustration he was.
It's the evidence of his impact.

And at the end of the day,  it's what I have.
This grief.
He knew it would be my companion and he made sure I heard him when he told me not to let it consume me.
He told me about it.
He prepared me in his beautiful and generous way to walk into these new real life days. He knew it was coming. 

So I welcome and abhor this grief that he prepared me for. 

He knew that I would miss him. And he demanded that while I missed him, in the moments and hours and days of this grief, he demanded that I remember to feed the cat.

And water the garden.

And laugh.

And cry.

And love our boys.

And live.