Grief. The dictionary defines it as deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death. But as someone who has experienced losing close family members to death, I really couldn't put a finger on it. To put a finger on something means to fully define it. Anyway, I would describe myself as pragmatic and logical. I always try to make sense of things by digging deep and nipping it in the bud. But not grief. There's no nipping this one. It's a wound that not even time can heal. I lost my brother two years ago. I made peace with it probably after a year, and it has been quite a while since I have felt the weight of grief tugging at my heart until yesterday when, ironically, I heard the good news that the condo unit my brother had been paying off for several years before he passed was finally finished and turned over to his children. I knew him well enough to know that he made sure he left something for them to somehow help them start and still live their lives comfortably without him. My brother put his children first and this modest property is a testament to that. My tears came rushing at the heels of seeing the beautiful property, and I could only wish he were still here to enjoy it himself. I knew what it was. I could smell it from a mile away. It was grief, yet again.
