There is a benefit to now.
There is a grace in the first year:
people expect grief to overwhelm.
They expect the isolation,
the empty mind,
the side effects,
the absence of one's spirit.
There is grace.
Unfortunate is the one who cannot grieve in the window of grace.
Unfortunate is the one who cannot grieve
in the window of grace.
(Unfortunate is not a big enough word.)
Doors open in the second year,
no matter if one hears the knock,
no matter if one turns the knob.
Expectations rise with the sun.
If one has not done her crying,
if she could not,
for any reason at all,
the grace does not last for always.
If her heart softens later,
people may not understand what is happening inside her.
I liken this to a child
whose brain is not yet ready to read
when phonics is part of the curriculum.
If there's a sudden literary connection when he's nine,
instead of when he was six,
the work is remedial.
His friends have moved on to chapter books.
He has just begun to piece the letters together.
They have begun to make sense to him.
But he is behind.
A pity to the one who cannot grieve
when there is time,
when there is grace,
when there is room for the brokenness.