Everything I have ever had to let go of has claw marks. There is a season for everything, but is there ever truly a good time to mourn the living?  

The sweet, feathery sound of Spring doesn’t quiet down the grief, the bitter Winter wind that blows right through your flesh doesn’t soothe the sting, and the mosquitoes thriving and biting in the Summer mugginess aren’t enough to distract me from the loves I’ve lost. Or more so, the loves that I’ve buried. 

I’ve spent the last six months of my little life in a graveyard. Four people I’ve turned over to the living dead—four people whose lungs still hold breath and cause hitches in mine. People who are, indeed, still alive but no longer present in my life, and all for different reasons. Some forced my jaw open and fattened me with betrayal, and others wanted to be the sleeping dog that others let lie and would sink their teeth into you if you tried to pick away their precious ticks and fleas that plagued them.  

Dear reader, for whatever reason, I know you’ve had your own experiences knocking the cemetery dirt off of your boots. I understand that your heart was wrought with many emotions as you walked away from them. Based on my own several burials, guilt was one of those emotions and perhaps hate was another. I felt what I thought was a deep-seated hatred for those who tenderly kissed every vertebra of mine, only to then plunge a blade between them and proceed to twist. Loathing welled up in my chest for those who vanished without a trace, as if I weren’t worthy of a farewell. Resentment grew for those who traded our friendship for their own twisted pleasures, and I despised the one who discarded my humanity, claiming that without its physicality, it was worthless. Indignation swelled inside me for the one who adores death more than anything else, who persists in flirting with The Reaper, despite the desperate sobs of her family and friends, and who welcomes him more than us. 

Yes, I truly thought hate had made its home in me.  

But reader, I came to understand that hatred is simply love wearing a heavy black coat. 

These people, these ghosts, they occupy my heart in different ways. I’ve learned their footsteps as they travel up and down the halls of my mind, and the distinct sound of their door knocks; I’m well acquainted with the unique ache each of them brings me, whether or not I open the door.  

Hate doesn’t do that. 

So, where do we go from here? What do we do with this displaced love? How do we handle something as slippery as grief? And is there a good time to mourn the living? To mourn whatsoever? 

No. There’s not. What should we do?  

The answer is simple, really:  

We must bury ourselves, too. In art, literature, theatre, music, poetry, film—anything that gives you that buzz that reminds you that you’re human and alive, so you don’t lie down and die with the dead. 

Do something physical. Hold a funeral for them. Mark that space in time with something, anything, to help you move forward. One way you can achieve this is by inscribing their names on a stone and burying it in the ground. Go ahead, get creative and create closure for your own sake.  

Wish them well, even though the hurt that blossoms in you is thorny.  

It’s okay to pound your fists on whatever divine being’s chest that you pray to and cry out: Why? I’ve done it more times than I have fingers and toes. While we may never receive our why, the universe sees what we cannot, and I am unyielding when it comes to believing coincidences don’t exist.  

And remember that not only do we mourn these loves we’ve planted in the ground, but the person we were while with them. We mourn that particular laughter they’ve seized from our lungs and the potential of it all; we mourn what could have been if the stars had just listened to our fervent begging, looked at our blue knees with pity, and aligned. By letting them go, you’ve severed a piece of yourself. So, please, dip into some grace when you feel off-kilter.  

Perhaps this is a conglomerate of useless advice, and maybe a therapist would spit on me (and you) if they ever read this article, but at the very least, I hope you feel my gaze. I hope you feel seen.  

And more than anything, I hope you can find peace among the slew of headstones. That one day, your visits with bundles of memorial flowers will slow to a crawl. 

Yes, you may be haunted right now. The grief is insurmountable, and it’s okay to wonder if they turn in their graves, but don’t dig them up to know. I know you miss them dearly.  

And to my dead, who may be reading this: I miss you, too.  

But reader, you and I must leave the hurt. We must accept that their bones are dry to our touch and then dance wildly with the living.  

Happy grieving.