i remember the days just before christmas 2002, after finding out that Mike had died on the bus from Vermont to Albany to spend thanksgiving with me.
i kept going into work, because i didn't know what else to do.
i sat at my desk and stared at my computer listening to "When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby.
i moved files around, pretending to organize myself when all i was really doing was trying to keep from being swallowed by the darkness inside me.

there is no such thing as "Grief" - it's not like "Love" (the capital "L" refers to the universal concept of idealized Love on the personal level and not the "i love butter" meaning).

Love is something that is inherently shared.
grief cannot ever be.

Love can go away.
grief is always there.

controlling it is like trying to submerge a Styrofoam flotation device. it's possible- with careful and constant attention.
and then a wave sneaks up on you and upsets the delicate balance; leaving you disoriented, clinging to the flotation device, looking at the drivers of every white boxy white car that passes, hoping it was all a bad dream.