My Friend, Grief, the Shapeshifter

I envy grief’s fluidity, her flexibility to stretch beyond her given time. Without notice, without apology. I have only ever been so rigid. I never learnt how to bend and arc above the frame. 

I envy how she takes up space, implores to be as loud as she can. I have only ever been silent. I learnt how to stay quiet, how to hide. Now I’m forced to deal with her cries. She fills up the whole room, squeezes me into the corner of my own house. 

I envy her persistence, how she goes on and on relentlessly. I wonder what could have become of my dreams had I been that determined. 

I envy her entitlement, how she chooses to be inconsiderate of the moment. She scuttles behind me as I miss the bus, and she runs after me in the rain. She stands by the window to block the sun, and she draws the curtains to keep out the moon. She stands loudly between me and my mother, and she sits silently between me and my friends. 

I envy her selfishness. I have never known how to be the self. So, she teaches me that everything is about her, even when there is no reason for her to be there. 

I envy her grip on the past, as I have never been able to hold onto anything with my flimsy hands. But she tells me that she never learnt how to let go. 

I envy her consistency. Through every chapter she sticks around, through every character she wades through. She lingers, as if waiting for the end, as if she knows that she is but love’s souvenir. She will always be there, even if in shadow.