My grandfather died and I didn’t cry.

This happened a few weeks ago, in the waning days of the miserable year that we all just came through. His death was not sudden, and for some time, I thought perhaps that was why I couldn’t bring any tears forward. He passed peacefully, with his children around him, adored by not just all of them, but their children as well, and even a few of their children’s children. It was a long life, well-lived, and so I blamed my inability to properly grieve on the inevitability of his death. Rationally – I considered – I’m not crying because his time had come and there is no tragedy there. When our elders pass, all we can really mourn is their absence, and that is almost selfish. Right?

The problem is, I tried crying. I wanted to, I even needed to. My grandfather meant a great deal to me and I deeply, powerfully mourned his death. The grief filled inside me and desperately needed vent yet, I couldn’t give it that release. And so, instead of allowing it to rise up and out, I tamped it down, burying it under layers of distraction.