Black holes are born from bright stars. When a star collapses, the singularity formed creates such a gravity that not even light can escape its pull. What sort of force would it take to overcome the gravity of my star collapsing?
I am yet to experience that morning when I wake up without Suse’s absence being the first thing that greets me. It doesn’t jump out and shock me anymore. It kind of sidles up to me as I stir, almost like the way she did every morning, but with opposite effect. I loved her early morning embrace, almost as much as I hate not having it now. Her absence is still very present in every waking moment.
I can’t imagine it being any other way. What would a shift in my grief mean? To answer that, maybe I need to ask what a shift in my grief would take?
Because it seems to me that it would take something monumental. My grief is so heavy, and it holds such an inertia, that even the smallest shift would require a very significant force.
And I have no idea what that force would or could be.
But the thought of it scares me. Because something wielding that sort of power would be fearsome, even if its purpose was to yield a goodness. And it scares me because it would open me up to a future that I actually might enjoy, a future that (I hesitate to say it) I’d be glad to step into.
So, a shift in my grief, would actually mean courage to face those sorts of fears. Presently, I have no capacity for that sort of courage. But I am open to becoming open to it at some point. My star has collapsed. I do wonder if it will shine again.
