Weary eyes

My eyes are tired. Waves of grief wash through me, often without warning, several times a day. I sob, scream, keen, grab my chest, double over — there is much drama here where no one can see me but the cats. And then the wave passes, and I move on to whatever is next on my to-do list or I laugh at the cats' antics or listen to the news; I resume a "normal" life until the next wave arrives. 

I haven't logged them, so I couldn't tell you whether they are more frequent or less than they were a week ago or a month ago. But I do think they're more sudden, and they pass more quickly than they used to. Certainly, they move through me more completely if I surrender to them entirely, if I just allow myself to have a full-body-and-mind breakdown, experience my pain, scream with rage.

We don't take a lot of pictures of people crying - and Sandy hated to
cry, hated how her eyes felt afterwards. So here's a photo of her with
Grumpus in December 2005. He was always good
for goofy relief from emotional drama.

I miss Sandy at every moment, and I'm aware of the loss all the time. But I can also become engrossed in what I'm reading or my work or whatever task engages me. And then I'll wonder sometimes why my eyes are so tired, or why my glasses are so smudged. The waves are fast and they feel separate from the rest of the time, so that I forget that I've had an emotional downpour, sometimes just five minutes earlier. But my eyes remember. They are weary, as they've always been after a hard cry. And it's been nearly four months since I've had more than a couple of hours without one.