My night shift coworkers had a conversation on Friday about perfectionism and the lack thereof amongst the staff at our in-hospital coffee shop. A coworker had returned to the floor with a group order that included an iced coffee clearly marked “hot” on the outside, which is the temperature at which it was desired.
Grief is the furniture you inherited from your maternal grandmother living on your enclosed front porch for over a year because you didn’t want a daily reminder that she is gone inside your house.
Grief is slowly moving those items, one by one into your house, when it felt right.
Grief is the frame of the bed that you slept on when you spent two precious weekends caring for your Grandma when she was on hospice. It wasn’t too comfortable. The head of the bed was raised up on blocks to help with Grandma’s reflux.
