Jess sent me a passage from a book this morning. She’s reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Patterson with her book club. She says that the main character, a 15-year-old boy, after experiencing the hardest thing in his life, says:
It was as if a curtain had fallen. It was like being born again. The colors were different, the smells different, the feeling things gave you right down inside yourself was different. Not just the difference between heat, cold; light, darkness; purple, grey, but the difference in the way I was frightened and the way I was happy.
I can’t imagine a better way to describe my grief. Everything is visible but only through a veil. Everything is muted. Everything feels fuzzy at the edges. Maybe this is why fall is coming harder than I hoped—fall makes things feel even fuzzier. In the past, it’s always been fuzzier in a warm, welcoming way. Now it feels fuzzier in a sad, melancholy way.
I start my new job tomorrow. I still don’t know if I’m ready to leave the shelter of these past four months of very private grieving. I still cry at the drop of a hat, even in public. But ready or not, here I come, I guess.