Slow Tsunami

A tsunami doesn't always announce itself with a towering wall of water.

Its immense force arrives almost imperceptibly at first. The sea can look calm before the water begins to rise. Then, little by little, you’re immersed — not by a single blow, but by a gradual, overwhelming tide.

Today, something was building quietly inside me. More and more throughout the morning, turning my usual steadiness into melancholy — a feeling without a clear cause.

It felt like a slow tsunami.

Grief doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it quietly rises.

An unexpected return of grief, even in the presence of hope.

By every measure, I should feel relieved. He's invited me to spend his birthday with him. We're going to a concert I've waited twenty years to see. Hope should have crowded out the sadness. Instead, the sadness quietly took a seat beside me.

Our time in Boston was wonderful. We laughed. We made love. We talked about writing. We reconnected. We left hopeful.

And then… we returned to our two separate houses.

The grief and longing that arrive after returning home can feel surprisingly sharp.

Sometimes the emotional “bill” doesn’t come due until a day or two later.

I’m still living with uncertainty, even as his invitation to his birthday encourages me.

It’s a reminder that I’m rebuilding — not fully rebuilt.

I miss the future I once believed was already decided.

I miss him: his smell, his skin, his touch, his presence.

Maybe hope and grief can occupy the same heart at the same time.

A quieter sadness that exists alongside genuine reasons for hope.

Calm seas don’t last forever, but neither do rough ones.

It simply means my heart is adjusting — learning how to love someone from afar who once stood right beside me.

A slow tsunami eventually reaches its highest point. Then, almost unnoticed, the water begins to recede.