I never cared much for gardening.
Too messy. Too slow. Too hard.

I never had a gift, I understand there could be joy in it, but it never came to me

‘If in doubt, weed it out’ was my mantra…..

But grief does strange things to you.
Makes you crave dirt under your fingernails.
Makes you want to see something grow
when everything else has withered.

I’ve spent hours — days, weeks, months — staring at the sky, trying to find her.
Trying to feel something. Anything.
Some days, I wonder if I’ve made the whole thing up.
If grief has painted stories over reality just to keep me breathing.

Some people think that when someone dies by suicide, they leave a note. A final message. Some kind of explanation to make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

Kahlia didn’t.

Grief doesn’t show up when it’s convenient. It doesn’t pencil itself in for the weekend or wait until the work meeting is over. It crashes through like a storm, uninvited and untamed, often at the worst possible time.

There’s a strange etiquette around death and grief. A hush that falls when the topic comes up, followed by a scramble to say something comforting — or at least something that sounds like it belongs on a sympathy card.