If you know someone who has…lost anybody who’s important to them, and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn’t forget they died. You’re not reminding them. What you’re reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that’s a great, great gift.
—  Elizabeth Edwards

“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, "I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it—you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.“ - Richard Siken

It’s been two weeks
It’s been two weeks and it still hurts
I still can’t read your name without feeling sharp stabs of pain in my chest
I still can’t see your face without remembering that you’re gone
I still can’t listen to you sing without tears welling up in my eyes
These wounds are still as fresh as the day it happened and sometimes, I forget that it’s been two weeks

It’s been two weeks and I’m still sad over losing you
And even though I expected to be okay again
I’m not
And I know people say that there’s no time frame on grieving
Especially when you’ve lost someone you loved
But they don’t really mean that
Eventually, everyone else learns how to be okay again
And they expect you to be able to do the same

It’s been two weeks and I can’t be okay
Not yet, anyway
Maybe I don’t even know how to be okay anymore
Maybe I don’t know how to stop missing you
To stop crying over you
To stop wishing that this was all some kind of horrific mistake and that you’re actually alive and well and that the hurt will finally go away

It’s been two weeks and I still wish that this was all a dream
Or, I guess a nightmare would be more accurate
I’m still waiting to wake up

It’s been two weeks and I still don’t understand
I don’t understand how a twenty-two year old girl has become a hashtag
“Rest in peace” should never be before your name
Not so soon, not at twenty-two
And maybe this is why it still aches as much as it did the morning I woke up and got the news that you were gone
Because I can’t stop dwelling on the fact that you were only twenty-two years old
I am twenty-two years old, I have friends who are twenty-two years old, and I cannot even fathom any of us losing our lives at such a young age
And yet, it happened to you but I still can’t wrap my mind around it
Maybe this is why I still cry whenever I listen to you sing
Because I keep thinking about how talented you were
Are
Were
Because I keep thinking about how much potential you had
Have
Had

It’s been two weeks and I still can’t come to terms with the grammar of this situation

It’s been two weeks and I’m still angry
I am so, so angry
I’m angry because you deserved better
And I’m angry because some self-entitled male chauvinist pig decided that he deserved you
And I’m angry because human beings are not property to be claimed and owned by another
And I’m angry because maybe this is guy would have realized that in the first place, maybe none of this would have happened
And I’m angry because this should not have happened
And I’m angry because it did

It’s been two weeks and I’m still feeling everything all at once
I still feel angry
And I still feel sad
And I still feel confused
And I still feel hopeful that maybe this will all end up being some elaborate, cruel joke
And I still feel like maybe you’ll come back
And I still feel disappointed in myself for being hopeful at all
And I still feel embarrassed of myself for thinking that you’ll come back in the first place
And I still feel
I still feel
I can’t stop feeling
God damn, I just wish I could stop feeling

It’s been two weeks since you “went home to be with the Lord”
And I’m still having trouble understanding
Why you couldn’t just come home to Jersey instead
I mean, I know New Jersey is the closest thing to Hell on Earth
And an angel like you deserves to be in Heaven
But I just wish you didn’t have to go so soon

—  two weeks
(cc, 2016)
There is no set timetable for grieving. No one can tell you when you will feel better or that in so many months or years you will be able to wake up without your loss being the first thing you think about. While people can support you, no one can go through the grief for you. And it can be hard if even the most caring friends stop asking how you are in the mistaken belief that you must now be OK.
—  The Daily Telegraph
Our grief is a suitcase that rests at the foot of your bed every night. Every morning when you wake up, you must pick up your suitcase and carry it with you. Some days, this suitcase will be very light, full of warm beautiful memories and easy to carry. Those are our good days. There are other days when the suitcase is so heavy that it must be dragged with you as you struggle to make it through. Then there are those days when you may not be able to lift the suitcase at all because it is so heavy with the loss, sadness, pain, and regret. On those days, we need help to carry that suitcase, so ask for help. But everyday, that suitcase is with you, it never leaves, just as grief doesn’t leave you. It changes from day to day, but never goes away. It becomes a part of you, that you take with you every single day. But remember the good times, and on those days, it is just easier to carry.
—  Stacey Farmer-Harvey
I will not forget you. You are in my waking thoughts, my sweetest memories, my dearest dreams.
I will not forget you. You have touched my soul, opened my eyes, changed my very experience of the universe.
I will not forget you. I see you in the flowers, the sunset, the sweep of the horizon and all things that stretch to infinity.
I will not forget you. I have carved you on the palm of my hand. I carry you with me forever.
—  Ellen Sue Stern