Grief and the Holidays

Grief was fickle for me this past Thanksgiving weekend. I expected to be an emotional mess when Mom was unable to come over for our usual, small Thanksgiving dinner. However, I was okay, at least I thought I was. What I didn’t expect was for Grief to slither in the next day and the days following. It wrapped itself around my entire being and squeezed hard.

I typically designate the word “fickle” to our Sierra Nevada weather, men, and my pup, Frank Sinatra. To their credit, their unpredictability is my greatest teacher because all are out of my control, and all persuade me to accept their fickleness lest I get my butt kicked.