For some reason, I’ve grieved the most during the summer. Maybe it’s nostalgia for those aimless days that stretched between school years when I was faced with enough time to ponder what had shifted and what was to come. Maybe it’s the relationships that blossomed in the spring then died before maturing, yielding to a summertime tinged with melancholy. Grief isn’t cute or convenient. It doesn’t pair well with adorable floral bikinis or Aperol spritzes. Grief, in its truest form, doesn’t spike numbers on Instagram. Grief is a friend we’ll spend time with whether we like it or not, so we may as well get to know it.
Hot Grief Summer
Hot Grief Summer
Hot Grief Summer
For some reason, I’ve grieved the most during the summer. Maybe it’s nostalgia for those aimless days that stretched between school years when I was faced with enough time to ponder what had shifted and what was to come. Maybe it’s the relationships that blossomed in the spring then died before maturing, yielding to a summertime tinged with melancholy. Grief isn’t cute or convenient. It doesn’t pair well with adorable floral bikinis or Aperol spritzes. Grief, in its truest form, doesn’t spike numbers on Instagram. Grief is a friend we’ll spend time with whether we like it or not, so we may as well get to know it.