Week 2 :: Dessert (Swallowing Grief)

The past two and a half weeks, I have been swallowed by grief, and, in turn, swallowing my grief. When I am consumed with anger or anxiety, I lose my appetite, as if my body wants to starve away the very marrow of these emotions so that they lose their vice-like grip.

But for me, grief has been the opening up of a giant gaping void right in the centre of my body. My appetite has increased, and I have been reaching for slices of toast, bowls of ice cream, chocolate, candy. Last weekend's main source of energy consisted of two frozen pizzas, which heated up somewhat sadly in the oven, and which I ate sitting on the kitchen floor, moving my hand to my mouth with a complete lack of enthusiasm for what I was eating.

Today, as I prepared my lunch, I felt sadness that I could not really taste what it was that I was eating, as if all the tears and sleepless nights have rendered my tongue blind.

Tonight I sit here, as the dryer rumbles and the rain pours, sipping a cup of raspberry tea with sugar, just like my aunt used to make me every morning during the summer I was sixteen, as I lay on her couch in Austria, bed-ridden and on intense antibiotic therapy. Each sweet mouthful of tea seems to make me feel safe and hugged from the inside out, as if I were lying on her veranda snuggling with Stewart (her dog, who looks like Rod Stewart) and listening to the church bells ringing in the distance.

These are not halcyon days, but like anything, this grief too shall pass.