Balancing Grief

Last week, I was gliding along pretty well, then, bam. Crying. Not crying, actually, but bawling was more like it. It was Tuesday and I was getting ready to fold laundry. I thought a song playing would be nice. So, I tried to think of one.

A song that my momma loved popped into my head. A minute passed and the tears gushed. They didn’t stop for 45 minutes.

On a Tuesday. In the laundry room.

That night, we had our 2nd bowling league night. My game was off. I couldn’t get my balance. My steps wobbled. My ball hugged the gutters. My score stayed low. My eyes fought tears.

In a bowling alley. With 40 other bowlers.

Grief does that. It interrupts steps. It unbalances the balanced. It shows up in a thought or dream. It cascades down on a quiet afternoon, in the middle of chores. It unleashes emotions that were once settled, into tears that are real and raw.

In August, I wrote a post called ‘A Half a Year Today.’ It was about my momma being gone a half a year already. A couple of days ago, when I re-added up on my fingers, I realized I was a month off! August wasn’t half a year ago, September is…

Time in parent loss is a bit like my wobbly bowling steps: all over the place. No wonder I couldn’t believe it had been 6 months, it had only been 5.

So far, it’s only Tuesday, this week is more light hearted. It’s smoother. Last week there were lotsssss of tears and missing her.

This week there’s still lots of missing her, but way less tears. That alone, feels like a more even distribution on the ‘getting through grief’ invisible scale.

What I’m learning is, bowling is all about balance and grief, for me anyway, has a sense of balance, too.

Missing someone starts to blend right into the every days. Missing someone, plus crocodile tears? That interferes with the rhythm.

Tonight, we bowl. My feet feel more solid already, whew!

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a wonderful day.

Jessica

my bowling locker is my favorite number 22
my bowling balls my dad gave me