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There are 1,440 minutes in a day.
For most of those minutes, I’m not seized by grief.
I’m not drowning in tears that won’t stop.
I’m not in bed or on the sofa or on the closet floor, trying to do something other than lay there.
I’m not angry or hopeless or fearful.

For most of those minutes.

But then sometimes I am.
I see a commercial for a new Marvel movie.
Or a black Honda Odyssey pulls into the neighborhood.
Or my phone rings and a telemarketer asks for him.
Or Coleman eats a Hershey’s with Almonds Nugget.
Or I hear an MC Hammer, Dave Matthews Band, Weird Al or Frank Sinatra song.
Or I park in his spot in the garage.
Or I move my shoes out of his path.
Or a person in a wheelchair passes by.
Or a hundred other things happen that I can’t even predict....

And for just a few of those 1,440 minutes, I am seized by grief.

I might cry hard and fast tears.
Or I might cry just one or two.
I might get really mad.
Or be totally surprised that he’s still not coming back.
The weight might feel like it will crush me, momentarily leaving me struggling for breath.
Or maybe it will just feel a bit heavier than normal.
It might be overwhelming.
Or I might just feel a little sad.

1,440 minutes.

Most of these last twelve months I’ve been counting my steps and driving carpool and running errands and calling my sister and writing a Facebook post and watching a Hallmark movie and doing laundry and laughing with a friend and navigating a virus pandemic and wondering what we’ll have for dinner....

With a space on my heart that used to gape wide but has begun settling in as just a part of me.
A dull ache. Sometimes it could even be called “slight.”
An awareness hovering in my chest that something isn’t right.
Something is missing.

Overwhelming grief isn’t with me for 1,440 minutes each day.
Just that space in my heart is.💙✊🏻