Grief Is Strange Like That

Grief is strange.

It doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t care what day it is or where you are or how long it’s been. It just shows up — uninvited, unexpected — like a song you didn’t know you remembered or the scent of something you hadn’t noticed in years.

Yesterday, I almost called you.

It was instinctual, really.I started saying your number out loud like I’d just dialed it the day before. Like I hadn’t spent over a year without hearing your voice.

Over a year.And somehow, it still doesn't feel real.The days have gone by, but they haven’t softened the edges.And the milestones since then — they’ve just felt off.

Celebrating a birthday without your 7am phone call? Not the same.

You used to call even earlier, and I always pretended I’d been up — but you caught on. You started calling just a little later, just enough to be polite,But early enough to still be the first.And you always were. Without fail.

God, I miss that.

I wish I would’ve answered in New York.

And the funny thing is, I would’ve… if I would’ve known it would be the last opportunity to get the annual “did your feet get any bigger” question that always brought a smile accompanied with an eye-roll. You left a voicemail that day. Told me not to call you back — said you didn’t want to bother me.But it was never a bother.Never once.Not the overly loud “Gracie!” booming through the phone,Not the long-winded stories I’d already heard a hundred times.Not the fact that you never really understood what I did for workBecause you refused to own a cellphone and had no idea what social media even was. You just wanted to listen. To know. To be part of it all.

And now there are all these moments —Moments I didn’t realize would echo.

Like not going to that Penguins game because it was a Friday night in college and I wanted to go out with my friends.What I wouldn’t give to go back and say yes. To all of it. To sit with you. To hear every ridiculous saying again, every exaggerated tale. To laugh at your same old jokes and act like it was the first time I’d heard them.

Because I didn’t realize then that time was a currency we were burning through.

Now it hits me in the smallest, strangest ways —The song that reminds me of you.The quiet drive home.The thought of my wedding someday,Knowing you won’t be there smiling ear to ear in the front row or tearing up the dance floor with your infamous “twist.” 

You were our biggest fan.Loud about it. Proud of it. You made the simplest accomplishments feel like headlines.And yet as harsh as you could be, you had this soft way of calling me higher —Of nudging me to be better, even when you didn’t fully understand what “better” looked like in my world.

You remembered the things I told you. You followed up on them. You asked about the little details that I never even knew you paid attention to.

And now that you’re gone, I realize how much I took that for granted.

There’s this ache I carry that flares up in moments that should be joyful. Because I wish you were there. 

I’d do it differently now, if I had the chance.

But that’s the thing about grief —It doesn’t fade in a straight line. It lingers in the echoes of the people we once were,In the things we didn’t say enough,

In the time we thought we’d always have more of.

If I could go back, I’d listen longer.Hug tighter. Say yes more. And pick up the phone. Every single time.

Because love like yours doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape.And grief? It’s just love looking for a place to land.

But I hope this grief never goes away. It reminds me of you. And never lets me forget to live by your ways, your sayings, And make sure your legacy lives on.