Author's note: Just so you know, this isn't him talking to anyone in particular. Especially not to someone he knows. It's meant more as an exploration of what he'd say if he was being completely honest about it. Without sugar-coating it in a way he might if discussing it with a friend.
Let me tell you something. Something about grief. Now, I'm not really a man for metaphors. Nor will I be referring to a poem or a book. Because no amount of literary mumbo jumbo is going to help you when grief comes for you. Believe me. No matter if you're Shakespeare or Einstein: every bugger's just the same when he's faced with loss. Words, especially fancy ones, won't matter. When your heart's caving inwards and the sadness is so bad you can't breathe, you're utterly helpless. Helpless like the day you were born.
You need to be ready. But that's easier said than done. For it comes at you stealthily in the dark of an evening, or in through the letterbox with your post. It comes with music, with laughter, or even when you're just minding your own business, watching the telly. Always this same painful nagging about someone who left you too soon. Sometimes it stabs at you, or washes in like a tide. Often, and worst of all, it surprises you, like a clap of thunder or a fart in a quiet room. But, instead of laughing, you want to weep uncontrollably. Weep like a lass.
Of course, I see grief most days in my line of work, but it's not a burden I like to share. I just don't think it helps. In fact, I try to avoid the clinging grief of others: its hands, like a beggar's on your arm. Except, of course, that grief pulls on your heart, dragging it down. Down to... well... a despair like you've never known. No, no. I'm not into sharing this particular burden: you carry yours and I'll carry mine.
Eventually the fact of your grief becomes familiar: like a touchstone for all you say and do. But I wouldn't say the same for the force of it: you may never get used to that. Sometimes it's so powerful, you think you'll turn round and see it. Yes, I can best describe my grief as a physical presence. Often I'm so maddened by it, I talk to it, like it's standing beside me in the room. Just like I talk to my dead wife.
So, you see, in my life there are three of us... but I'm the only one who's really here. Fumbling on with existence, counting the minutes between those moments when I almost forget. I don't want your sympathy. Or even your understanding. I just ask that you leave me to it. Because it's the only way I know to go on.