Taking the Time
Humans –
the real ones, not like me – they don't have time for grief. I don't mean
they refuse to grieve but that they literally don't have time. Their lives
are too short.
They have
to curtail their grief because the world won't wait for them to get through
it. They have to work. Or others need them to be strong. The children need
the widow to bury her husband, then dry her tears and be strong.
Strong
means strong enough to suppress the pain. To make it go away sooner than it
wants to.
I don't
have those problems. Time I most certainly do have. It's the curse of the
immortal – accumulated grief. But at least I'm allowed the time to feel that
grief and get past it. Wear black for a year? Make that two. Five. Ten. Is
that wallowing in grief? Perhaps.
But they
all deserve it.
I have no
work to be strong for either, now I've passed the torch. Time to move on.
How long did
Victoria wear black? Now there's a woman who knew a thing or two about taking
time to grieve. She took forever. Or as much of forever as real humans get.
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