Stages of Grief

In the past day I've been thinking a lot about stages of grief.  I don't think that I have anything new to say but I write anyway, knowing that it helps me to sort through my own thoughts and feelings.

Grief is hard, because as soon as I think I have a bit of it figured out, BOOM, it turns into something else that I have no idea how to deal with.

The first three or four times I told someone, "He's dead," it was terrible because each time it seemed more real.  Like maybe, maybe if I didn't keep saying it, it could all be an awful joke and Nick would be popping in the back door of Crumble any moment, ball cap tugged on backwards, laughing and saying, "Gotcha!"  Because for the eight months that I knew him, he was always so very alive.  So sweet and thoughtful and generous, quick to laugh and quick to encourage.

But now --

The more often that I say the words, answering when people ask how I am, how we are at the coffee shop and the bar --

Now they are terrible for the opposite reason, because it feels less real each time.  There's already this dream-like quality to talking about it, and that is hard too.  I guess it's hard to come to terms with the knowledge that this really isn't a joke.  Hard, too, that life goes on.  A huge part of me wants it to rain and traffic to stop and everyone to wear black.  But no.  Instead all of us go in to work like normal and make small talk and the sun shines.