Softer

I was new in Mrs. Morrison's third grade classroom.  I had only been there a few weeks, and I remember hearing the whispers going around...Sam wasn't there because his grandpa died, and he went to the funeral.

I remember when Sam came back.  He was wearing a cream shirt, which seemed to stand out against his darker skin.  His black hair was short.  He was quiet.

And he seemed softer.  Everything about him seemed soft.

I've thought about this moment since third grade, and I had to wonder why.  I'm not friends with Sam, and I never really have been.  I could almost guarantee that no one else in that third grade class remembered the few days Sam missed.

After this week, I finally understand why I remember this moment.  This was my first acquaintance with grief.  This was my first understanding what the concept meant.

And I realized that, for me, grief does make you softer.  I've felt more keenly for the pain of those next to me.  Crying with a girl who lost her brother.  Talking with a boy who misses his mom.  These people who are still commenting in class and making sandwiches and taking out the trash.  During the hard moments, we still breathe.

We breathe in and out and cry and blow our noses.

And our souls become soft.