The Weatherman
Every crack in the ice is another wrinkle on your face
When your birthday rolls around it’s like you’re staring back at me
I feel your heartbeat slow down and speed up
I watch you rock the shore to sleep
All the pinks and yellows collapsing into stars
You were the center of the sun
All the flowers blooming from your chest
Praying for the rain to come
The water is calm this type of year
You tell me everything’s okay
I feel your heartbeat slow down and speed up
I’m the weatherman hoping for change
Grief isn’t linear. I first wrote stories about your death a year after you passed, a song about your death 7 years later, and The Weatherman just the other day, nearly 15 years later. We romanticize grief for different reasons–sometimes to share our pain and connect somehow, to relate to loved ones and complete strangers all the same. Maybe we romanticize our grief to try to understand. Maybe it’s to remind us of the you we once had in hopes we don’t forget. Do you worry that you’ll forget?
Grief isn’t linear. Time may heal some wounds but the scar tissue itches from time to time. From not being able to get out of bed in 2011 to going to work everyday in 2025 with you on my mind, writing about where I left you–your ashes scattered scattered across the sea. I admit, “everyday” is a stretch. Mental health days are used pretty frequently, and and I don’t blame you for that. Is there someone to blame? I can rattle off a few people who may deserve it, but whether blame is assigned or not, we’re still lying in the same bed wondering why. Or maybe we don’t wonder at all, we just lie and wait for the weather to change. I’m still waiting.
Grief isn’t linear. We’ll try again tomorrow.
