Grief is not linear, of course

Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on you—like making you cry ugly tears in front of a stranger at CVS.

A couple of days ago, I was in line at the pharmacy, picking up a prescription for my husband. When it was my turn, I gave his name and birthdate to the woman behind the counter. She paused, looked up at me, and let out a soft sigh.

“Oh. That was my son’s birthday,” she said.

I mistook her smile for a happy one.

“Oh, it is? Wow, that’s so neat,” I said politely yet cheerfully, before it hit me that I should have recognized the bittersweet tenderness in her voice. But it was too late.

“Yes, it was his birthday.” She paused. “He died.”

Gut punch. The difference between is and was never hit harder.

“I’m so sorry,” I fumbled, but by then, it was too late. Her emotion had triggered mine. I felt the lump in my throat swell as my vision blurred with tears.

For most of my life, I wasn’t really a crier. If anything, I leaned the other way—more numb than emotional, thanks to undiagnosed depression, waiting to pounce when I least expect them. But when my dad died over a decade ago, tears seemed to take up permanent residence, always lurking just beneath the surface.

Now, they show up when the universe sends me reminders of him: James Taylor’s Fire and Rain on the radio, a cardinal at my window, a glimpse of Civil War history trivia, or a cherry red ‘69 Mustang convertible—the same kind he restored.

These signs are small, fleeting, and yet they’re everything. They’re all I get now. Little glimpses of a ghost. And even when they hurt, they fill me with gratitude.

So as I stood there, listening to this woman share her loss, it hit me: I had unknowingly delivered a sign to her that day, a connection to her son. And that realization overwhelmed me with emotion.

Of course, in true “me” fashion, I made it awkward. My tears flowed freely, and she ended up comforting me, offering a tissue and assuring me it was okay.

As I apologized for the scene, she smiled softly and said, “Really, it’s fine.” And in that moment, I felt the profound connection of shared grief—the way it quietly bonds us, even with strangers.