On second thought (or insert whatever cardinal number you choose for how many times I have rethought this), I’m not finished grieving.

Remember that day when I thought I was? When my tears dried up right in the middle of my twelfth anniversary and I declared myself free?

(Oh, Tricia. Your naïveté is so darling.)

It was a milestone, that day. It was a turning point. And the emotions I have felt and carried and processed in the weeks since then have been different from the emotions prior to that day.

But I’m not done. Nope.

Grief is perhaps a stone I carry in my pocket.

And sometimes it grows legs and chases me down. And sometimes it wraps its iron chain around my neck.

And sometimes it just sits, smooth as a worry stone, silent as a memory, along for the ride.

But gone? No. Not gone.

I give myself extra points for being able to say, publicly, “‘Member that thing I said? I was wrong.”

Thank you for not saying, Yeah, I totally wondered about that. I didn’t think you were done.

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