Ten years ago, a young woman named Jen died suddenly, unexpectedly, the kind of unforeseen loss that leaves a tight circle of friends and family numb and empty and asking hard questions of whatever Higher Power they subscribe to. The outlines are there in the clippings: honor roll student, athletic, artistic, beautiful. She was just out of high school, headed for college, full of the promise and expectations that stretch out before those who are making that transition, a path that ended too soon and too sadly.
I didn’t know Jen, but a good friend was very close to her—a cousin the same age—and still feels the loss today, all these years later. So by that one degree of separation I feel the ripples across time, see them in her face and scattered tears. And although I know that my second-hand sadness cannot compare to hers, I join her in mourning the loss of something more than a life: the loss of a lifetime of shared smiles and mutual dreams.
I have heard that, “The wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of life.” I hope I am never that wise.
If we do not grieve, we cannot share the grieving of others. It is only by reaching within ourselves and finding a personal touchstone that we can call forth anything more than the tired platitudes that too often accompany another’s deepest pain.
There will never be words enough. Having received no answers in our own grief, we offer none. And so, most often, I can do no more than listen as my friend talks about Jen and the searching she has done since those days a decade ago when she had to say goodbye to someone to whom she was connected by more than blood. We both understand that I cannot lift the weight from her, as much as I would take it on myself if I could. Instead we share the experience of separate grief. That is all any of us can offer, and I see it is all she will ever expect.
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