I've been wanting to write something on grief lately, and how it can sometimes feel like having the wind knocked out of you. I've always thought the most intimate ways to portray grief in writing is in the remembrance of the little, non-consequential things - the way someone smells or how much they like to say "like", or how aggressively they use their hands when they speak... I feel it's the little things we tend to notice about the people we love and care about, when we dare to pay attention, that we tend to randomly miss when they're gone. I call this:

"Some Stories Are Better Shown, Not Told." 

Do you remember those flapping costumes outside malls? 
The ones with creepy black-and-white eyes that seemed to follow you? 
You always said you hated how tall they were, how your heart would race as you walked past. But I think you were just scared—and didn’t want me to know. 
Instead, you told me you hated them because you couldn’t shake the idea that one dumb doll might lash out and hurt you. It was ridiculous, and you knew that. 
But I laughed, and believed you anyway. It’s harrowing to think I might never see that stupid grin again—the one I pretended to mock but secretly loved. 
I’m sorry I called it stupid. It’s easier to say that than face the silence your absence leaves behind. 
Now I stand in front of a camera. The light flashes. Someone yells, “Cheese!” A chorus of laughter explodes, pulling me out of my grief-stricken reverie. 
The photo is taken, and somehow, my sadness clings to the edge of your camera’s lens. 
My deflated heart drifts, unsure where to land. 
Maybe some stories are better seen than told. 
How else can I talk about your absence without the breath being knocked out of me?