So here's the thing about deep grief.
It changes you. Forever.
It changes your life. Forever.
It rearranges your very molecules and will inevitably scatter some hopes to the wind because the day you lose a beloved, there will be dreams lost to the stars. They might shine still, but are now out of reach.
The beatdown of grief doesn't mean you won't form new dreams or dust off ones from long before. It doesn't mean you won't find delight in new or reanimated dreams.
It doesn't mean you will never be happy again. It doesn't mean you will never laugh in surprise, play lively games or feel carefree again.
Grief doesn't mean you will never get your energy back (although it seems like it at times.) It doesn't mean your give-a-damn is damaged beyond repair (although it REALLY seems like it at times.)
But it changes you.
I am reminded of this because when the seasons noticeably shift I feel a melancholy born of grief.
It surprises me every time.
Every time that spring blooms into summer, every time summer yields its power to autumn, every time autumn slips into winter and then winter begrudgingly gifts us spring, I am surprised by how my heart suddenly hurts at the passing of time.
It really hurts.
Grief is the price of love, I hear, and it's true. And you never know when you're going to have to pay up.
Grief was my constant companion for a long while, my Siamese twin.