As you may know, I have a somewhat odd propensity to talk about grief. It's not an easy topic and I wouldn't say I take a weird pleasure in writing about a painful thing, like one who embraces pain to relieve discomfort.
As I sit and write this, thinking about why I truly feel a grace and pressure to write about grief, I sit at my computer with a cup of coffee, of course, and bowl of granola and milk.
Now, this image seems innocent enough, but as I take a spoonful, I experience a conflict of realities. I can almost feel an opportunity for time traveling through the smell and taste of it. For the milk I'm drinking is from my goat Ida. I gathered this milk from her four days ago and it has a slight tartness to it, that reminds me of her smell. I often tell people goat milk is terrific, better tasting than cows milk, when it's fresh. That's the important part, freshness. Because after a certain amount of days the "goatiness" of the milk becomes too pungent and it's really hard to drink, as it feels like you're getting mouthfuls of her fur.
This however, still doesn't explain the conflict of realities, other than how I'm in the present drinking something harvested in the past - really this isn't a hard concept for us to live with. The other piece of the story, I haven't shared yet, is what has helped me realize another reason why grief is so hard.