Wisps of Grief
You never know what will trigger you, 35 years after you watched your mom take her last breath. It could be anything. Sometimes, it’s everything. There is nowhere to hide. The universe places things at your feet, and you must look.
There was a lady who surprised us by showing up for yoga this morning. Usually, it’s just the three of us. And there she was. I overheard her say that she had just lost her husband, and there it was. Grief inside me that wanted to puddle at my feet. My mom never lost a spouse. I lost her. It comes to you when it wants to. I should stay so lucky to catch the reminders as they come.
I was trying to concentrate, or not concentrate, but I kept thinking about what it must be like for her to go home. If I had to walk into the red barn in North Hollywood after every yoga class, I would probably undo the collective progress of the world. I would walk with one shoe untied. I wouldn’t brush my hair, even though I never brush my hair. I wouldn’t fix my hair. I can’t be fixed.
I guess someone sewed me up with stitches strong enough to last the rest of my life, but there sure are days when I can feel them stretching. Leave my heart inside and let it keep beating to the rhythm of the redheaded boy waking up every morning to his mom’s soft voice and a tray full of breakfast. “Jonnie, wake up.”
A summer day can feel like a blizzard even when it’s not cold. A sack of hammers landing on your big toe. A jellyfish sting that won’t stop stinging. Poison oak. Running fast around the corner of Old Man Jones’ abandoned garage and catching your inner forearm on a rusty nail. Grief is a sharp arrow.
When I buried my mom’s ashes, some of them flew back into my eyes and face. I wonder if she can see out from where I hold her. I wonder if there is a deeper wound. Summers will never be the same. Don’t scatter ashes in the Amagansett water on a windy day.
Have you ever seen a movie where one person calls another person’s voicemail just to hear their voice? I used to do that. Wait, I used to dream about that. Every night. I think we took the answering machine away right after she died. Time is minuteless when you are in the void. Sometimes, you want to stay there. I still go there when I need to.
It’s the sound of a voice. The smell of that suntan lotion. It’s everything that reminds me of her.
© Jonathan Greene, August 10, 2026
