Grief Needs Witnesses

(instrument screeches) (button clicks) (bright music) Headspace Studio. (ambient music) Hey friends, it's Rosie here. Welcome back to Radio Headspace. The other day I was feeling like I needed to be alone, not dramatically alone, not leave me forever alone, just quietly, tenderly alone. The kind of feeling where your nervous system is a little raw and you don't quite know why. I drove to my local fruit stand, the one with the colorful umbrellas and plastic cups stacked high and the smell of citrus hanging in the air. There's a little Hispanic lady who works there who prepares the fruit with the practiced rhythm, slicing mango, sprinkling Tajín, squeezing lime like she's done it a thousand times before. The sound of the knife on the cutting board, the metallic shake of the chili powder, the red dust blooming over bright orange fruit, and for a split second, she reminded me of my abuelita. (soft music) It will be three years soon since my grandmother passed away. Three years feels both long and impossibly short. I didn't expect the fruit stand to undo me, but grief doesn't announce itself politely. It arrives through scent, through texture, through the way someone tilts their head while cutting fruit. I stood there holding that cup of watermelon and papaya and something in my chest tightened. The Tajín felt sharper than usual. The lime a little more acidic. I blinked a few times and told myself it was just the spice. When I got home, Tori asked how the fruit was, and I laughed and I said, "The Tajín is particularly spicy today." I fought back tears and blamed the chili powder. There's something about grief that makes you wanna be composed, functional, especially after a long day of work, especially when you don't want to unravel in the middle of your kitchen. A few hours later, after emails were sent and work was wrapped, Tori asked again, gently, "What's wrong?" We were standing in the kitchen, which has become our ritual space for decompressing. I usually cook dinner as a way to settle myself. There's something about chopping vegetables and stirring pots that grounds me. He handles the hummingbirds' go-go juice, a.k.a. sugar water, before their happy hour serge begins. Carefully filling the feeders as the backyard starts to hum with wings. That evening, I didn't really wanna talk about the sadness. It felt too tender, too unformed. I thought if I named it, it might spill everywhere. Have you ever felt like that? Like when you give what you were feeling a voice, suddenly it would go everywhere. (soft music) So I hovered in that space of almost speaking, but eventually it came out, not dramatically. Just a simple sentence. "The lady at the fruit stand reminded me of my abuelita," and something shifted. It didn't need a solution. I didn't need reassurance. I just needed the feeling to be witnessed. We stood there for a moment, side by side, in the quiet...