Grief Doesn’t Have an Expiration Date

I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since my dad died: 361 days to be exact. Last week, I sat at my desk working on attendance during my lunch break, when a song played on my phone: “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. The intro was soft and hazy, like stepping into a cloud, and I thought, Why don’t I listen to this song more often? It’s so chill.

Grief struck like a rock hitting a windshield: suddenly and destructive. The sorrow seemed to come from nowhere, and instantly my cheeks were damp with tears.

“This isn’t even Dad’s favorite song,” I stammered, unsure of why Grief was invading my lunch break.

That’s the thing about Grief, though; the bastard doesn’t care when he shows up. He’s like the uninvited fly, buzzing by your ear. This constant reminder that you are plagued by your loss, regardless of how much time passes.

At first, I was shocked by my sadness. Then, I was inconvenienced by my sorrow. I shook my head a few times to get back to my senses. I had to teach a class in five minutes, and I couldn’t do so if I was sobbing. Where had this come from? Why could I feel my dad’s presence in my office, as though he was standing just behind me peering over my shoulder at my computer screen?

”I’m never listening to that song again!” I lied to myself.

Grief isn’t comfortable for me. I liken it to wearing a wool sweater in the middle of July. So, instead of allowing myself that moment, I pushed past it, as I have done many times over the past 361 days.

“Grief, I’ll deal with you later,” I said.

But, Grief waits for no one. Instead, he sets up camp just behind your eyes and applies unnecessary pressure at the most inopportune times, like right before your lunch ends and fourth period is about to begin.

A few hours later, my sister called me. We talked while she drove our grandmother, our father’s mother, to Walmart. We both shared about how difficult these last 361 days have been. How we still expect our dad to randomly call our phones and leave us one of his epic phone messages, or laugh his contagious laugh in our ears while calling us his infamous nicknames: she’s Nai Nai, and I’m Froggy. But that isn’t going to happen, and that brings fresh tears to my eyes as I write these words.

“This sucks,” I choked on a sob.

”I know,” my sister’s voice quivered. “I can’t wait to hug you,” she added.

“See you on the 23rd,” I whispered.

”I’ll call you later. We just got to Walmart. Love you,” she answered.

”Love you, too,” I replied and ended the call.

Then, I made room for Grief. We hung out for thirty minutes and remembered my dad: the larger than life man who always had a song on his lips.

I cried. I remembered. I always will.

That’s the thing about Grief… he isn’t going anywhere. He is my worst enemy and my greatest confidant, regardless of whether it’s been 361 days or 722… Grief has no expiration date.