I grieve with others, in empathy. I experience pain witnessing tragedy and I clutch, with others, at the petals of hope in times of despair.
But this grief is utterly selfish. It is me missing you, me feeling the hole in my life, the emptiness in my womb, the relationships that died while the people still live and the ones that died with death.
I can't prevent grief, can't stop myself from loving, from expecting, hoping, planning.
Sometimes I am scabby and oozing.
And sometimes I am a crackerjack improviser, spinning deftly from that vortex, reconfiguring myself with everything that's left.