My next sentence might seem strange and probably one I never thought I would utter.
“I am proud of my grief.”
There, I’ve said it! What a strange thing to say especially when, obviously, I would rather not have grief at all. But I do have grief and I hate it, of course I do, because above anything else I want my man. How I want my man. I try hard not to let my grief define me but it is a massive part of who I am now. However, the love and happiness he brought into my life is a far, far bigger part of all that I am. It is more than four years since my life changed forever and I still feel emptiness and sadness and a longing for all that could have, should have been. But I cope. I cope by keeping my man alive. Alive in our hearts and memories. “Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”
Those of you who are newly bereaved will find my statement difficult to understand perhaps, but those who are further on in their grief, hopefully, will know where I am coming from. Now, I guess, I need to explain:
I am proud of my grief because it symbolises my love for the rarest soul ever on earth and his love for me. My grief keeps my man alive. It tells a story. My story. Our story. A story of deep, all consuming love between two people. A story of one being left alone on this earth but still embracing that deep love. A love so strong that it can never die. A story which tells how love continues to grow, even after death. Yes, the rarest soul ever to walk this earth was mine, is mine and I, his. So I carry my grief with pride. Why wouldn’t I, for all that it signifies?