That is to say, it can be a liquid, gas or a solid.

Sometimes my grief is a gas trapped in a ziploc bag. It’s light enough to carry around, and I can even shove it under my shirt if anyone gets suspicious. I can take it out, and see my hands through the plastic. It’s magic! A lightweight way to make it through my day without something I felt I was going to die after I lost. 

Other times my grief is a gallon of tears I’ve cried into my sweater sleeve, a pillow, my bathtub. It takes the shape of whatever container it’s in – unless it refuses to be contained. Then my grief is a liquid with a vengeance. It’s the mighty Mississippi, it’s me missing a person who I’m not sure can miss me. It’s got the span of the Gulf of Mexico, engulfing anyone or anything that happens to be in my life at the time. It drown me as it’s pulled from my eyes and I don’t know how I’m still alive, because I definitely don’t hydrate enough to supply this many god damn tears. 

But on the worst days my grief is solid. It’s concrete I left unattended in the soles of my shoes, in the pit of my stomach. It hardens overnight and suddenly I can’t move. I’m stationary. The weight is too much to bear and I can barely get out of bed. My face is frozen and so is time. I’m right back there, and I can’t even make out the words “I’m fine.”