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I once got sacked for laughing. . . mind you, I was driving a hearse at the time.

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Meghan O'Rourke

Much of Hamlet is about the precise kind of slippage the mourner experiences: the difference between being and seeming, the uncertainty about how the inner translates into the outer, the sense that one is expected to perform grief palatably. (If you don’t seem sad, people worry; but if you are grief-stricken, people flinch away from your pain. )

Away, Differences, Expected, Grief, Pain, Palatably
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I wasn't prepared for the fact that grief is so unpredictable. It wasn't just sadness, and it wasn't linear. Somehow I'd thought that the first days would be the worst and then it would get steadily better - like getting over the flu. That's not how it was.

Grief, Linear, Sadness, Unpredictable, Worst, Would Be

I think about my mother every day. But usually the thoughts are fleeting - she crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely. . . gone.

Crosses, Eye, Gone, Mother, Spring

One word I had throughout the first year and a half of my mother's death was 'unmoored. ' I felt that I had no anchor, that I had no home in the world.

Half, Home, Mother, Word, Year, Years

I was not raised with religion, and I had no faith before my mother died. On the other hand, when she died, I did not immediately feel she was "gone. " I don't believe she is in something like heaven, but I also feel that we don't understand much about the nature of the universe. So I hold on to that uncertainty, at times.

Believe, Hands, Heaven, Mother, Nature, Understand

Grief is a bad moon, a sleeper wave. It's like having an inner combatant, a saboteur who, at the slightest change in the sunlight, or at the first notes of a jingle for a dog food commercial, will flick the memory switch, bringing tears to your eyes.

Dog, Food, Grief, Inner, Memories
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