The Shape of Grief
I had a vision in the early moments after learning of my brother’s death. I sat on the concrete stoop outside my home, vibrating with shock, waiting for friends to come and pick me up. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned an empty space between two worlds — Before and After.
I could still glimpse the shore of Before: my life a mere hour earlier, before my mom called to tell me my 21-year-old brother Will had been found dead.
Somewhere in the distance hung the world of After — a place where my brother’s death might feel real, less like an awful dream. After would be the planet my remaining family and I would soon belong to. It was a place where we’d be shattered, sprained, and someday, perhaps, healing.
In those thick moments of shock, I belonged to neither world. I floated somewhere in-between, in a dank, thin-aired chasm.
For years, when I’ve written about this moment of dangling between Before and After, I’ve superimposed a bridge onto the image. Here, I say to the girl still perched on the cool, hard stoop, this is the bridge you will walk. This is how you will get from Before to After. One tiny step at a time.
But I was wrong. The thing about bridges is that they end. At some point, they always rejoin solid land. They eject you. A bridge is not a place to stay, it’s not a home. It’s a journey, with a clear…