March 17, 2014 § 1 Comment
How could she possibly grieve Ambrose more than she had already grieved him? Yet she did.
There is grief below grief, she soon learned, just as there are strata below strata in the ocean floor- and even more strata below that, if one keeps digging. Ambrose had been gone from her from so long, and she must have known he would be gone forever, but she had never considered that he might die before she did. The simple magic of arithmetic should have precluded that: he was so much younger than she. How could he die first? He was the picture of youth. He was the compilation of all the innocence youth had ever known. Yet he was dead, and she was alive. She had sent him away to die.
There is a level of grief so deep that it stops resembling grief at all. The pain becomes so severe that the body can no longer feel it. The grief cauterizes itself, scars over, prevents inflated feelings. Such numbness is a kind of mercy. This is the level of grief that alma Alma reached, once she lifted her face from her father’s desk, once she stopped sobbing.
-The signature of all things, Elizabeth Gilbert.