Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Grief

And just when I wasn't exactly begging for a new day, I was wakened by the sunlight peering into white sheets and comforter I had pulled over my head, reluctant to remove it. I wasn't ready. I was breathing, but it was heavy and labored. I was hurt, so hurt that I forgot to eat breakfast and lunch. I negligently combed my hair. I was consumed with grief and the knowledge that neither the escape from my white bed linens nor my deepest exhale would relieve me of the heaviness in my chest. I was captive, a prisoner.

And that same day, as I tearfully attempted my daily duties, swimming in thoughts of what I would have said, what I should have done, I stumbled upon the news of some 30 persons who died just for getting up that morning. Some might have been happy hell, eager to see the sunlight. Certainly with less hesitation than I that morning.

And with a renewed perspective of my grief, I slept. I woke the next day with the same the heavy-chested, deep-breathing consumption. Still fighting the clutches of my white bed linens, still in the throws of grief. And the sun came to shine another day. No matter what happened the day before, no matter if we decided to participate in the day or were forced not to. In time my breathing was not as labored as the days before, my chest no longer heavy. Today, I greeted the morning sun with a bit of a smirk, this same day Virginia Tech students returned to class.


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