I walked back into my office today after filling up my water and thought about how people were coming to my house tonight and how I should wear a sweatshirt to be comfy and how I wore my Brooklyn sweatshirt once while I cooked southern food for my friends in my Brooklyn apartment and how I cooked a second southern meal for other friends there and how it was chicken and dumplings and how my granny made her dumplings. Breathless, the grief hit me like a wave and a brick. Hard stop, but flowing through like I’m underwater. I don’t know.
Before my grief counseling, the waves of sadness would overtake me and I would drown. She taught me how to ride them. But I don’t care for surfing.
After writing, I emailed this to my friend and said “is this poetic or stupid” and maybe it’s both
Feeling makes me feel both.