The Physics of Grief

The bear had been in our driveway for three mornings in a row. A black bear, smaller than I'd expected from the news reports, rummaging through trash cans like a disappointed tenant. I watched from the kitchen window, coffee cup cooling in my hands, while Mark slept on the couch he'd moved into the den three weeks ago.

"You going to call someone?" Mark asked, appearing behind me in boxers and a faded t-shirt from college. The baseball tournament we'd been planning to attend started in two hours. Our son's team, the Reds, had made regionals for the first time.

"I called wildlife services yesterday," I said, not turning around. "They said if he's not causing trouble, just leave him alone."

"He's going through our garbage, Sarah. That's trouble."

"He's hungry. That's not trouble. That's biology."

I'd started running at dawn again - six miles before Mark woke up, past the subdivision's manicured lawns and the elementary school where we'd voted in every election since moving here. The running helped. It gave me an hour where the only thing I had to bear was my own breathing, the rhythmic thud of sneakers on pavement, the way sweat dripped down my spine like a countdown.

Our daughter was already at the pool when we finally left the house. The neighborhood pool, where we'd spent every summer weekend for fifteen years. Where I'd learned to float on my back while pregnant with our first child, where Mark had taught both kids to swim, where we'd hosted the Fourth of July party that ended with three neighbors speaking to us for months afterward.

"You okay?" Lisa asked, appearing beside me with a diet soda. She'd been my friend since childbirth classes, since we'd bonded over swollen ankles and fear of the unknown. "You look... thin."

"Running," I said automatically. "And separation. Does wonders for the waistline."

Her expression shifted - sympathy, uncomfortable recognition. Everyone knew. Everyone had opinions about who was wrong, who should've tried harder, who the kids should live with during the transition. The bear appeared behind her, actually - a small stuffed bear backpack on a toddler walking past, ironic timing.

"Mark seems good," Lisa said carefully. "At the baseball games, I mean. He's been helping with the coaching."

"He's always good with the kids. That was never the problem."

The baseball game started. Our son pitched, striking out the first three batters. Mark leaned forward on the metal bleachers, screaming encouragement like he'd never hurt anyone, never broken trust, never lied about where he'd been those three nights last fall when work supposedly ran late. The parents around us murmured about college scouts, about how far this team might go.

I watched the bear cub on the toddler's backpack bobbing as the child walked toward the concession stand. Thought about wildlife services' advice: just leave it alone, let it pass through on its way to somewhere else. Some problems resolve themselves if you give them space.

But some bears, once they've found a reliable food source, don't move on. They return, again and again, expecting the same easy meal. Eventually you have to make a choice.

The game ended. We won. Mark and I stood awkwardly beside each other while the kids celebrated. "Running tomorrow?" he asked, like it might be something we could do together.

"No," I said. "I think I'm done running."