Grey is not one of my favourite colours, but I think it depicts the emotional state of someone experiencing this kind of loss and grief.
The ocean’s rhythm
GREY
She watches the sun set then gathers her jacket closer to her chest. Under her bare feet the sand feels crunchy. It makes a squelching sound with each step. The water whispers ‘Sh-sh-sh,’ then retreats with an inward sigh, as if drawing breath before rushing back to the shore.
Toes half-buried in the sand, the woman waits. No matter how hard she tries to resist, the shock of that first splash catches her breath and forces a short, sharp squeak from her. Two waves later and her response is childlike. She rolls her trackpants higher and dances along the water’s edge, swaying in and out with the ocean’s rhythm.
Her hair is long; the red of youth forgotten, except in photographs. Grey strands spring out from the bun on top of her head. Her eyes regain a little of their sparkle with each evening spent on the beach. She holds her arms wide, then crosses them over her chest and walks away from the water.
Fighting grief saps her energy. Sometimes she wants to plunge into the ocean and float away. The hole in her chest, where a heart once beat, feels gouged and bleeding.
Near her, a bird fusses in the scrub. Twiggy rustlings and clucking noises alert the grey-haired woman to the coming of night. She feels a chill, so cold it is beyond physical sensation.
‘Why you, not me?’ She senses her daughter’s spirit. ‘I am the old one, I’m past my usefulness.’
‘Grandma. Where are you?’ The voice is high and wobbly. ‘We need you Grandma.’