My name is Grief.

I've visited Rachel before:
- when her baby brother died before he was born,
- when she had to leave a culture that felt safer and warmer than the one she was born into,
- the years Gramps and Grammy declined and died.

This visit was different.
This time, I moved in.

I'm not sure she welcomed me so much as she allowed me.
I bring a lot with me. It takes up space.
Rachel didn't have a lot of space to give, so I ended up filling most of it.

Some people shove me in a small corner when I visit, or limit me to the outskirts.
I'm there, but they pretend I'm not.
It becomes a fight. I get angry and try to take up more space. They get scared and push me back harder. Sometimes I win. Sometimes they do.

Rachel wasn't like that.
Rachel allowed me to take what I needed.
So I did.
I took her time. I took her joy. I took her focus. I took her hope. I took her peace. 

You might think I sound like a terrible house-guest.
Maybe I am.
But I needed these things.
In the beginning, I had to take them. But the longer I stayed, the more she gave them to me, and soon I had enough to give back.

I gave her clarity and confidence. I gave her quiet and emptiness. I gave her comfort and truth. I gave her awe for beauty and wonder. I gave her love and felt love.

The more she gave me, the more I gave her, the more space there was for more. I live here now and I always will. I belong. I have enough room and so does she. We've become comfortable friends.