Nobody Warned You About the Quiet

Everyone warns you about the hard parts. The phone call, the service, the paperwork nobody tells you comes with losing someone.

Nobody warns you about the quiet.

The first morning where nothing happens. The chair that is still where it was. The way you catch yourself listening for a sound that isn't coming, and then feel foolish for a full minute before you remember that you're not foolish, you're grieving.

If that's where you are today, there's nothing here you need to do about it. Put something on. Sit down. Let the quiet be in the room with you instead of against you.

It gets less strange. It doesn't get smaller, but it does get less strange.

— Ané