There apparently once lived a queen of England who, when her husband passed away, maintained his bed and chambers in exactly the way they had been left by him that day for the rest of her life. She had her servants deliver breakfast in the morning for him. She kept his clothes; his belongings; his toiletries exactly as they had been as if he was still alive. “He” remained until her passing.
When she died, I wonder if everyone around her breathed a sigh of relief. They were released from having to maintain her mad delusions. They didn’t have to deal with the crazy woman anymore who refused to grieve and move on.
Today I am acutely aware of my hand clutching a hope that persists but has not manifested. Attached to a deep loss that I am not sure I’m grieving well. Stemming from a loss I’m not sure how or if I should grieve. That loss doesn’t quite bleed anymore; the wound has covered over. But it feels like I’m allowing myself to calcify in this disfigured state. My trunk, its huge gash still obvious, is growing still but remains looking like a huge section was sawed out. I don’t know if, how, or when that part may grow back. And I’m not sure I want it to.