Instructions for Carrying an Invisible Grief

Do not name it too soon.

Grief, when invisible, lives on silence —

it shrinks beneath language,

hides in the hollow of your ribs.

Carry it as you would carry light in your hands:

carefully, knowing it burns and fades at once.

Do not let anyone tell you it isn’t there

because they cannot see the smoke.

Feed it small things —

a song that trembles,

a walk without purpose,

a breath you do not rush.

It asks little, only that you don’t forget to look.

Some days it will feel lighter than a sigh,

others heavier than your own name.

When it presses down,

don’t fight to stand.

Kneel.

Let it pass through you like weather.

You will learn its seasons —

the sudden storms,

the long winters of quiet,

the unexpected thaws.

Each one will teach you a new language of staying.

If someone asks what you’re carrying,

say "nothing."

If someone looks closer,

say "everything."

Both will be true.

When night comes,

lay it beside you.

Do not try to sleep without it.

Invisible things fear abandonment.

And when at last it begins to fade —

not vanish, but soften —

thank it for the weight,

for the way it shaped your hands

to hold what cannot be seen

and still call it love.