The Weed of Hope

Grief gets its own five-stage video game: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Only there’s no Game Genie for this one. Controller throwing is a must. But, it’s incomplete. There’s a level no one talks about. 

Pre-grief. Every tragedy begins with a stubborn ember of hope. The quiet haunting of the yet.  Stir the fire and you’ll see the light’s not gone out. Not yet. It’s the slow-motion preplay of getting punched in the face. It’s inevitable, but then again, maybe it isn’t? 

The stubbornness of hope persists. It is the Rocky of emotions, refusing to stay down. There isn’t much more I love in the world than the triumph of human persistence. Tenacity is my favorite human trait. I can’t think of anything more romantic than the refusal to submit to despair. To declare in your darkest hour, we got this.

I get chills just thinking about it.

Trouble is, you’re not saving the sacred realm from the forces of evil. You’re in grief’s waiting room. Sometimes your never-give-up disposition is masquerading as denial. It’s neither romantic, nor brave. It’s barely dignified. It’s just good, old fashioned, denial. 

The sneaky fuck grief had you the whole time. The secretary will see you now. All your gnashing of teeth, and Goonies-never-say-die bravado just nestles you deeper into the sleeping bag of grief. Sometimes hope is an impediment to progress. It is the handsome brother of denial. But make no mistake, they are family. It plants you firmly in your tracks, paralyzing you. The weed of hope slips through the cracks and stubbornly refuses to die. If we ever want to walk on this sidewalk again, we’re going to have to do some landscaping.

Stage 1, Motherfucker. Press start.