Waves

Grief comes in waves.

As the ocean waters can be smooth as glass before the tempest's arrival, I am composed before the downward spiral of my unraveling.

Calm before the storm finds me in peace, or in a state resembling it. This quiet deceives me so well, soothes my troubled soul into a lull of false security, and I begin to believe that the worst is over—until I recall your voice calling my name, a Siren's death song to which I am drawn. Thrown overboard into the raging waters, I clutch for a buoy to which I could cling. My lungs fill with saltwater, suffocating me until the edges of my consciousness blur with panic and loss of air—

but I never am truly drowned. Thrashing to keep from going under, I take in wet, sharp gasps of breath. The waters are calming yet I remain submerged, frozen in terror, awaiting the next wave.

The Hollowness of a Bite

We met at a restaurant.



It was a steakhouse, a block away from where I worked. The entire place was wall-to-wall wood: tables, chairs, even the candleholders. It appeared cozy and familiar, the perfect place to have a hearty, comforting meal after I had another rough day at work.

“I’ll have the filet mignon, please,” I ordered. “Well-done.”

The quiet laughter and conversation of the other diners rang loud in my ears. I felt their lightness weighing down on the hollowness inside of me, more painful than the physical pangs of hunger. Only then did I realize that I was the only person dining alone, seated at a table large enough to fit four people, but was occupied only by me.

The waiter slid a plate onto the table, interrupting my thoughts. “Filet mignon, well done.”

Eagerly, I cut into the thick slab of meat with a knife and fork and took a bite. The meat was tender and seasoned perfectly, the warm juices running down my throat, filling my mouth. Pillows of buttery mashed potatoes. A bright green and orange palette of mixed vegetables, crunchy beneath my teeth. I closed my eyes and allowed the flavors and textures to take over my senses.



After polishing off the meal, an unusual wave of contentment washed over me. Waving over the waiter, I asked, “Would it be possible for me to thank the chef personally?”

He nodded and walked through the kitchen door. When it next swung open, out strutted a tall, lanky twentysomething in a white double-breasted jacket. His toque was lopsided, like the smile he wore when he reached my table.

“Good evening. I’m Mike, the head chef,” he greeted, offering his hand. “I hope you had an enjoyable meal, miss…”

“Kirsten. Please, call me Kirsten.” I shook his hand and held on for a little longer than was necessary. His eyes sparkled.

“It’s a pleasure, Kirsten.”