Seasons of Grief

The zombie in the mirror startled me—pale skin, dark circles, eyes that had forgotten how to focus. Six months since Sarah's funeral, and I was still moving through days on autopilot, consuming grief like it was the only nourishment I needed.

Milo, our tabby cat, wound around my legs, his purr a small motor of insistence. He still waited by the door every evening, expecting her key in the lock. The dog, Buster, had stopped doing that—perhaps dogs are pragmatists where cats are optimists. He'd simply accepted the new reality: no more Sarah, no more evening walks, no more her laughter filling the kitchen.

I found myself at the grocery store, staring at papayas. They were her favorite. She'd eat them with lime and a sprinkle of chili, claiming they tasted like vacation memories. I bought one, carried it home like an offering.

The papaya sat on the counter for three days, ripening in the silence. Each morning I'd touch its skin, testing its surrender to softness. On the fourth day, I cut it open. The scent hit me—musky sweet, tropical, completely at odds with our grey Seattle winter. I ate it standing over the sink, tears finally mixing with the juice.

That night, I drove to the community center. The pool was empty at 10 PM. I changed into swim trunks I hadn't worn since before—the elastic was loose now. The water was cool, shocking me into something like feeling.

Swimming laps, I counted strokes, breath, turns. My body remembered what my mind had forgotten: how to move forward, how to find rhythm, how to surface. The zombie in the mirror might still be there tomorrow, but tonight, weightless and wet, I was something else entirely.

Someone alive.

In the locker room, my phone buzzed. My sister, asking if I needed anything. I typed back: Just time. Then added: Maybe a cat. And a dog that remembers how to dream.