I think the hardest thing about life is death.

And I believe in Jesus, I believe in heaven.

I believe that someday I will see my Nanny and Papa again.

Cousin Joe, Uncle Jack, Marquis, and all the people.

And really I can’t imagine not seeing them again.

I don’t think I have enough faith to believe that.

But faith isn’t what makes death the hardest thing.

Because when you lose someone,

you’re not thinking about heaven and what you believe and whether or not you’ll see them again.

You’re not even thinking.

You’re just feeling.

My mother wrote a poem years ago about what grief feels like.

It’s called Melbourne Nights:

I want to talk about grief

And how it washes over you

in sharp splintered waves

Yet–that’s not it

Because it’s really a swell or tidal wave

that’s heading straight in to shore

But you’re the shore and

Being the shore

You have no where to go

So you stay put–a million flecks of sand

huddling and waiting for the final assault

that never comes and yet keeps coming

And your grainy heart

anticipates …

anticipates…

anticipates…

The hardest thing about life is death because there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.

Like my mother said, it’s a wave.

You can never get over it.

You can only go through it.