Today was the first Saturday of my new reality. For years, Saturdays meant a phone call from my father. Sometimes too early. Sometimes at inconvenient times. Sometimes not at all.
Sometimes the conversation brought comfort, and sometimes frustration. But the possibility of hearing his voice was always there. Today there was no call. Not because he forgot. Not because he was busy. Not because I didn’t answer. There was no call because I closed the door. The reality of that settled in today.
I was too exhausted to cry. Grief has a way of draining the body. I’ve carried it all week while working, smiling, functioning, and moving through my days as if nothing had changed. No one knew how much I was carrying. No one knew my inner pain. No one knew I was suffering loss.
The Silence
Today I slept.
The tears tried to come a few times, but they never arrived. They rose and then disappeared before they could fall. I wasn’t healed. I wasn’t at peace. I was simply tired.
What struck me most was the silence.
The familiar Saturday rhythm is gone. The phone won’t ring with my father’s voice on the other end. The conversations, however imperfect, have ended.
There is something uniquely painful about grieving people who are still alive. They aren’t gone from this earth. They are simply gone from your daily life. You say goodbye while knowing they are still somewhere out there, living their lives without you, just as you are learning to live yours without them.
That thought is heavy.
Too heavy for tears today.
Today was not about crying. It was about recognizing what has changed.
The silence came.
And for the first time, I understood that it is here to stay.
Day 6. Today was silent.
My Voice Unchained 