Sometimes I cry. I cry long and I cry hard. My body shakes, the tears come until I’m dry and my stomach knots until it gives. My hands grip whatever piece of fabric feels most like him until my nails embed into my skin and my knuckles ache white. My eyes swell and my throat closes.

This is my way.

Sometimes I laugh. Mostly at myself. For something inappropriate I say, the absurdity of my reality, a memory of my not-so-distant past. The laugh is true and real.

This is my way.

Sometimes I sing. I belt out a snappy rhythm in the car, bounce in my seat and bang the steering wheel, loud enough for Heaven to hear. I whisper his favorite melodies at bedtime while I rock in his chair to the soft blue light of his darkened room.

This is my way.

Sometimes I yell. I yell at Heaven for taking my baby. I yell at myself for not being able to prevent it from happening. I yell at the emptiness for swallowing me whole and I yell at the morning for waking me up to another day without him. I am angry. I am sad. I am hurt.

This is my way.

Sometimes I write. I write of the suffering and I write of the pain. Oftentimes the thoughts spilling onto paper feel as though they come from a source outside my own mind. I write what I dream and I write what I hope to become and about the person I know I can be if I just give it time and a little more effort.

This is my way.

There are countless ways to handle grief and I am learning every minute how to navigate this process. It is hard. It is terrifying. It is exhausting.

But, this is my way.