Grief Journal: The Hollowness

It’s been nearly a month since I posted. I didn’t know if I wanted to, or needed to, keep writing. After all, after a year what more can I say?

Our family went on a trip out west so we wouldn’t be home on the one-year anniversary of Chariie’s death; we could not be in the house. It was a trip we had planned last summer, and didn’t get to take. It was good to spend time together as a family, but I’m not going to lie—it was a hard, sad week.

I brought Charlie’s beloved Beary Bear with us. Usually, Bear sits by my bed. I say “good morning” and give him a kiss good night. If I’m really missing Charlie, I’ll hold it. I hate that Bear doesn’t smell like Charlie any more, but it’s still a tangible connection to him—Charlie slept with, hung out with, and loved on that Bear every day of his life. 


I thought that bringing Bear would maybe be a bit like having a part of Charlie on the trip. But it wasn’t. Instead, it just reminded me keenly that Charlie is gone.

A year on, and I just don’t feel him any more. My heart tells me whatever part of his energy and bright light lives on is far, far away. And that’s okay. I don’t like the idea of him hanging around, worrying about us. He should be on to the next adventure. Maybe I can catch up one day.

But in the meantime, I’m left here, missing him. One year on and the grief is so heavy it weighs me down. And that’s a good thing, because the absence of Charlie has left me hollow. Without the grief—that terrible enormous love and pain—I might just float away. 

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