I’m starting to realize that grief can’t be hurried. Like bread, it needs time to rise. Like food, it needs time to go through you. It can’t be rushed. It has to be processed and come out the other side.

I had a dream that I was in the changing room at the Y. There was a large torrent of water coming out of one of the lockers. Fortunately, it didn’t have anybody’s stuff in it. One of the pipes had burst and water was going everywhere.

I had someone call for help, and a worker knew where to shut off the main water valve.

I’ve come to see this as my grief. It might leak out uncontrollably. Who do I call to turn off the water?

I’ve not cried for my coworker yet. I’m not sure how. I’ve gotten misty-eyed, but no actual tears.

It is weird. Every death is different.

I don’t want to be indifferent and aloof, but I also don’t want to be washed away. I don’t know how to deal with this death. I guess I’m learning how by doing it.

I don’t want to make a big mess. I hate making a mess. I hate being a mess. I don’t want someone else to have to clean it up, to clean me up.

But sometimes grief can’t be contained. I thought it could.

I’ve come to realize there is no express train through the town called Grief.