Grief is a strange acquaintance, like a ne'er-do-well cousin who turns up unexpectedly or a stray cat that wanders in and out at will. There seems no rhyme or reason to when Grief pays a visit, and you can never know how long it will stay.

Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night to find it sitting on your chest, throttling your breathing and gazing down at you with unblinking golden eyes. Sometimes it's a smell that reminds you of someone and you turn to see the old troublemaker watching you, tail twitching. Twitching with what? Satisfaction? Anticipation? Simple nervous energy? Sometimes it stays away so long you think maybe it has forgotten you, moved on to bother somebody else. Then a flurry of autumn leaves scatter across the road and as they blow away, you see that familiar form again and your heart sinks.

Grief isn't what you expect either. There's an unspoken list of "acceptable" griefs: the loss of a loved one or a home or a special item. Death, illness, destruction. Then there are the other griefs, the ones you're supposed to stomp on and get over. The longed-for child that never came, the life that never materialized, the friend who drifted away and never came back. The idea of who you thought you were that seems to be lost —or perhaps never existed at all?

As soon as you see those yellow eyes, the shape of Grief padding back into your heart on silent feet, you wonder. "Will you just sit a while? Will I wake up to your silhouette in the window for a few mornings before you slip away again? Or will there be a loud crash from the study and I'll rush in to find you've knocked over a bookcase, scattering volumes and shattering vases? Will you simply make your presence known for a few minutes or will you stay for days and leave new and irreparable destruction behind?"

You can't know.