Maybe you can't take it with you, but grief sure don't pack light. As the days and weeks go by and the (sur)reality of losing my brother sets in, it's becoming increasingly clear how much I (fear, believe, think) I no longer have - how much life death takes with it.

I cannot:
listen to music
watch families
stop seeing him
stop missing him desperately
feel happy; ever imagine feeling joy or happiness again
look at the sky
look anyone in the eyes
think about eyes
speak more than briefly, superficially with anyone
feel at ease, calm
remember our childhood, our past
make future plans
feel like making future plans
think about the past
stop regretting everything
feel good about having him for the time I did (are you kidding me?)
feel much other than a) numbness, b) rage, c) despair, d) thrumming panic
eat
sleep
relax
play
laugh
feel grateful
feel anything but sad
enjoy ______ (fill in the blank)
wish for anything
feel deeply connected to anybody; too painful
teach without crying
read
think about teaching or reading or connecting or celebrating or laughing or doing anything that feels alive and like moving on because that part of myself, the open part, the alive part, feels cauterized, shut down, tucked away somewhere in Grief's suitcase