Mother, Mother Ocean

My grief is like an ocean.

Its waters hold a thousand tears, and it rocks with the tide of my mind, pulled by the sky, echoing the lullabies that could have been.

It changes. Some days a slick calm welcomes you with a peace of being; others, the waves spill in choppy jabs towards the shore, unsure of their direction; and some days, the waters are fierce.

It is vast and deep. It carries light and life within it, around it.

It is the taste, the smell, the feel of saltwater; letting it roll across your wounds, healing, though it stings. You have to feel.

I can see how you can be swallowed up whole by it. Waves of sadness unfairness guilt pain anger heartbreak what if, what if, what if. Pounding. The knowledge of what should have been, and what will not be, knocking you flat. You have to remind yourself to catch your breath between the waves.

On a calm day, sometimes one of those comes out of nowhere and hits you, throwing you down and under so you don’t know which way is up or down. It hurts.

Sometimes the wind cries with you, carrying water through the air, in a storm, or even a quiet steady shower that says to everything around you, god I miss our baby.

And you realize at some point that it never goes away. This grief. This ocean. It changes. It shifts. Tides roll in and out. Even the most broken, angry, surging waves of pain find their soothing rhythm and peace again. Always there. Ebbing in and out, pulled through the currents and storms and years of changing shores and a thousand sunsets across the waters that constantly remind you that life still holds beauty and grace, especially in that line where the mighty sea and open sky meet.

It’s rough and calm and powerful.

My grief is like an ocean. Its very essence is healing. And in the storms, she lifts her water to the skies, crying for the world to hear, weeping for what was lost, answered by the drops of rain, falling back to their mother, from where they came.