Please don’t say you’re sorry for my loss or give me your condolences. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll still be where I am and feel the suck of my soul regardless of these words you use, which are society’s assigned phrase to help not the grieving but the dispassionate deal with the grieving.
They are generic attributes of the most heartbreaking and fundamental part of our lives and are an insult to the grieving. They say you are distant from the pain. They say you’ve chosen to remain apart and not open yourself to connect, even for a second, with that part of life that rips the most precious people from your world.
If you do want to help, even a silent touch or a heartfelt hug is better than the meaningless banter of those hollow words. Just say you’re so sorry. That’s enough to let me know, even if you don’t feel my pain, that you wish I wasn’t feeling it either.
If you go even deeper and tell me what a good daughter or mother or friend I was, then you’ll be forced to share in my pain of knowing how simple it would have been to have done more and maybe, if I had, then he’d have been happier and made a bigger effort to get stronger and fight to heal his body and chase the demons from his mind.
If you say I was lucky to have had him at all, you would be right and I could feel the gratitude in that. His memory is my reality and right now it’s less a blessing than a feeling of emptiness that it’s now just a memory.
I wish we could take it all back, Papa, and you could be here again.