I believe grief creates an opening. I believe grief is organic. I believe grief must grow into hope. This I believe.
My kitten fell out of the window of my loft last week. Six stories up – or-down – as the directional flow of things was in that moment. Did Leavey slip? He always ambled with a limp. Did he leap for a bird or startle at the garbage trucks clanging and slamming the metal bins in the alley below? The tragic awful-ness of my wondering could easily keep me stuck.
Monson wrote so a position has opened up in the linewe stand in every night to jump
off the bridge and into something like excitement;
we queue so as to avoid an aerial collision
so no one goes half-assed and then gone on us.
He wrote the future is a shoulder without the promise of an arm.
Leavey went gone on us. What was left was Larkin. A lonesome littermate who needed a replacement, my sisters said. A replacement? For Leavey? By the end of a week – there he was – black and bouncy and downy, like a duckling. He’s so cute it hurts to look at him. He’s so not Leavey it hurts to look at him.
I turn to my sister, a mirrored, red-headed self crying – “this is just like Nicole”- our cousin who died of bone cancer at ten and whose parents had a new baby, literally, one year to the day. Without Nicole no Nathan. With Nathan, no Nicole. Leavey stepped, or leapt or fell off the ledge and avoided that collision. Another position has opened up in the line . . . I believe it’s so my grief might grow into hope . . . this I believe.
If you enjoyed this essay, please consider making a tax-deductible contribution to This I Believe, Inc.