Grief is when you discover how loud silence is.

Before loss, silence is something we rarely think about. It’s just the space between sounds, a pause in a conversation, a moment of calm before the day begins. It’s empty, almost invisible.

It’s a quiet Sunday morning, much like the ones before it. The sun stirs me from sleep, and my pups are already at the back door, tails wagging, noses twitching, eager to greet the backyard like it is brand new, like ten short hours just might have changed everything. I brew a cup of coffee, my comforting morning routine, and I make my way to the ocean.

I prefer to view life as a series of transitions, each one unfolding into the next. Some gentle, some not so gentle. If you would, imagine us beginning as small, soft caterpillars, exploring the world with curiosity, unaware of the inevitable changes that await us.

Mom died on a Wednesday, a day that marks the middle of the week, yet it was her end and just the beginning for me. Her celebration of life was beautiful, everything I imagined and more, even though I can’t remember any of it. I was numb, smiling, thanking people for coming, nodding in sympathy and consoling them for the friend they lost.