You know the song. The one that plays when the raindrops begin. They march in, one by one, and so do the chords. By themselves they seem so small, but they build, one on top of the other. They hit your ears and they trigger instincts – muscle memories and rituals you’ve let lay dormant. They hit the ground and they smell of spring – of wet loamy earth and petals snapping open. This is a different song and a different thunderstorm – it is not silence, it is not death, it is not sadness, it is a drumbeat, it is a shaking, it is a fierce demand that you come out of hiding, that you shrug off your winter blanket, that you open your eyes and see what these raindrops will deliver.
My tears fall in the same way. There is no grief here.
What have you lost, what are you grieving?