April 5th.

Forgive me. 

I’m sure you’ll know what I mean when I say, “I don’t have the words.” 

There are things they don't tell you about grief— how it changes you, how it makes you tired, and how sometimes, you slip into a darkness that seems endless and almost impossible to climb out of.

And how, how do you stop being sad? 

They don't tell you that it will all hit some sunny afternoon when you're driving down the road; or some Wednesday morning at work when the most attentive nurse stops you in the hall to ask if you're doing OK today. They don't tell you about the times you are surrounded by friends and family, and suddenly something is missing. They don't tell you that you'll have to step outside and take a moment to recollect yourself.

I could fill pages and pages describing my beautiful friend’s funeral. I could write about the choir and the songs they sang, and how I’ll never hear some songs the same ever again. I would tell how the gymnasium was filled up with people who loved her. I could write about the raw grief and vulnerability that were a part of that day; and how I can still, as clearly as though it were only yesterday, picture my friend's mom with her face buried in her hands.

I could, if I had the words. 

I could tell about the graveside: how the sky was dark and heavy, how we stood tight for warmth, and how the crowd sang together.

I tried to sing, but I only managed to get one note out.

I didn’t have the words. 

Someday, I want to write about how, in the midst of all the grief and sadness, there was an elusive beauty to that day. There was love and comfort in friends' hugs. There was unspoken communion in looking into another’s grieving eyes. And there was peace-- peace in that ever-beautiful truth: Eddie is free now, and happier than we can comprehend. 

Someday, I want to write about Eddie Rose.

But I can’t. Not yet. 

So, forgive me, because I know it's not often that I don’t have words.