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.
