Yesterday, Sal’s parents came over to drop off some photos for the memorial slideshow. They're snapshots of Sal as a kid — smiling, playful, and absolutely adorable. I can't wait for people to see them. It’s strange how something as simple as a photo can capture a joy that feels so distant now. For a few moments, it felt good to remember him this way — full of light.
The Tug Between Solitude and Company
Even though I’m grateful for the pictures and the memories they bring, the visit was hard. Right now, solitude feels as necessary to me as air. Being alone gives me space to grieve without having to hold anything together for anyone else.
Inside me is a tidal wave, pressing against a dam I built with trembling hands. Every so often, I crack it open just enough to let a little spill through — enough to ease the pressure, but not enough to flood the valley. If I let it break all at once, I fear the surge would sweep everything away, and I don't know how long the waters would rage before they calmed. I’m not just protecting myself; I’m trying to protect everyone else from drowning too.
I can’t let the damn break. Not right now. Not until the funeral is over. Not until my duties are done.
But THEIR need for company is strong — matched only by my need for solitude. It feels like they don’t believe me when I say I want to be alone. I know they’re not trying to ignore my words; I think they’re projecting their own needs onto me. They want to be surrounded by people who knew and loved Sal. To them, being surrounded by others who loved Sal feels essential. To me, being alone feels like survival.
Even though I’m grateful for the pictures and the memories they bring, the visit was hard. Right now, solitude feels as necessary to me as air. Being alone gives me space to grieve without having to hold anything together for anyone else.
Inside me is a tidal wave, pressing against a dam I built with trembling hands. Every so often, I crack it open just enough to let a little spill through — enough to ease the pressure, but not enough to flood the valley. If I let it break all at once, I fear the surge would sweep everything away, and I don't know how long the waters would rage before they calmed. I’m not just protecting myself; I’m trying to protect everyone else from drowning too.
I can’t let the damn break. Not right now. Not until the funeral is over. Not until my duties are done.
But THEIR need for company is strong — matched only by my need for solitude. It feels like they don’t believe me when I say I want to be alone. I know they’re not trying to ignore my words; I think they’re projecting their own needs onto me. They want to be surrounded by people who knew and loved Sal. To them, being surrounded by others who loved Sal feels essential. To me, being alone feels like survival.
Grieving in Private
Only a handful of people have seen me cry during this time. It happens more often than anyone knows — in quiet moments, behind closed doors.
Sal’s parents have only seen the surface: the moments when I’ve managed to steady myself, when I can greet them at the door with a smile, when I can answer their questions without breaking down. They haven’t seen the lowest valleys. And maybe that's for the best — or maybe it’s another small act of love, sparing them my full weight of sorrow when they are already carrying so much of their own.
Only a handful of people have seen me cry during this time. It happens more often than anyone knows — in quiet moments, behind closed doors.
Sal’s parents have only seen the surface: the moments when I’ve managed to steady myself, when I can greet them at the door with a smile, when I can answer their questions without breaking down. They haven’t seen the lowest valleys. And maybe that's for the best — or maybe it’s another small act of love, sparing them my full weight of sorrow when they are already carrying so much of their own.
Questions Without Answers
His mother still cries on my shoulder. Every visit, she asks me, over and over, “What happened?” She’s asked a hundred times. Each time, it’s as if the question is brand new, as if the answer might suddenly appear if she asks just right.
Her eyes plead for an answer I don’t have. I wish I could give her something that would make sense of it all. But all I can offer is a soft, honest, “I don’t know.” And the truth is, we might never really know.
The final coroner’s report won’t be ready for at least another five weeks. Even then, I’m bracing myself for the likelihood that it will leave as many questions as answers. Some things can’t be explained away on paper. Some things just... happen. And we’re left to make peace with the pieces.
His mother still cries on my shoulder. Every visit, she asks me, over and over, “What happened?” She’s asked a hundred times. Each time, it’s as if the question is brand new, as if the answer might suddenly appear if she asks just right.
Her eyes plead for an answer I don’t have. I wish I could give her something that would make sense of it all. But all I can offer is a soft, honest, “I don’t know.” And the truth is, we might never really know.
The final coroner’s report won’t be ready for at least another five weeks. Even then, I’m bracing myself for the likelihood that it will leave as many questions as answers. Some things can’t be explained away on paper. Some things just... happen. And we’re left to make peace with the pieces.
An Exhaustion That Runs Deep
I’m tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Every part of me feels stretched thin. There’s a constant tug-of-war inside: part of me wants to ask them to go home so I can collapse into bed, even for just a little while. But I don't. And I won’t.
They need this time with me — and maybe I need it too, even if I can't feel it right now. Grief isn’t a neat, linear path. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and full of contradictions. I want them here because they are a piece of Sal. I want them gone because my body and mind can barely function. Both things are true.
I’m tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Every part of me feels stretched thin. There’s a constant tug-of-war inside: part of me wants to ask them to go home so I can collapse into bed, even for just a little while. But I don't. And I won’t.
They need this time with me — and maybe I need it too, even if I can't feel it right now. Grief isn’t a neat, linear path. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and full of contradictions. I want them here because they are a piece of Sal. I want them gone because my body and mind can barely function. Both things are true.
The Quiet Work of Goodbye
These days, my energy is rationed like a precious resource. Every task on my to-do list feels enormous, even the small ones:
These days, my energy is rationed like a precious resource. Every task on my to-do list feels enormous, even the small ones:
- Clean the house for the reception.
- Finish the slideshow
- Curate a playlist of songs that feel like him.
- Drop off his suit at the funeral home.
- Post the funeral invitation.
- Handle the million tiny details no one will notice if they’re done, but will definitely notice if they’re not.
Letting the Days Unfold
I don’t know what the next few weeks will look like. Some days I feel capable; other days, sleep is what I crave and I intend to listen to my body when it screams at me that it needs rest.
Sal’s parents will come and go. Friends will check in. The tasks will get done, one by one. And somehow, through all of this, life will keep unfolding — messy, painful, and sprinkled with moments of happiness.
I don’t know what the next few weeks will look like. Some days I feel capable; other days, sleep is what I crave and I intend to listen to my body when it screams at me that it needs rest.
Sal’s parents will come and go. Friends will check in. The tasks will get done, one by one. And somehow, through all of this, life will keep unfolding — messy, painful, and sprinkled with moments of happiness.
Dear Grace, please prioritize rest and sleep and self care. Love always, Kat.
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