Grief is strange.
It doesn't knock, doesn't prepare you, It just... seeps.
It doesn't always arrive draped in black or sobbing through the walls. Sometimes, it comes quietly, like a soft song from another room, like the scent of something warm you can't quite place. Or like... lemon water, sweating in a forgotten glass across the table, waiting for someone who won't be coming home.
Most people think grief is loud. The funeral wails. The slammed doors. The late-night breakdowns on tiled bathroom floors. And sure, there's that. But no one talks about the stillness, the cruel, expansive silence that stretches across the kitchen on a Sunday morning, swallowing the clinks of dishes and the hum of the fridge. No one talks about how grief is a ghost that makes breakfast with you. Not for you. With you.
That's what this is now. Sunday mornings.
A ritual.
Myra pours two glasses of lemon water every Sunday. One for her, one for Jamie.
It started the Sunday after the funeral. She had been slicing a lemon absentmindedly, the same way she'd done for years, and only when she placed both glasses on the table did she realize, he wasn't there to tease her for using "too much pulp." But she couldn't bring herself to pour it away.
So, she left it.
And then, she did the same the next Sunday. And the one after that.
Three months, two weeks, and four days. Fourteen Sundays. Fourteen glasses.
The dining table is still slightly scratched where his wedding ring used to tap against the wood when he was deep in thought. She used to nag him about it, those little dents he left in everything. But now, when she trails her fingers over those grooves, she imagines he's still somewhere close, worrying over a crossword clue, sipping too loudly, humming that awful tuneless hum.
She misses the noise. The mess. The interruptions.
That was the thing about Jamie he had a way of inserting himself into every moment, not out of arrogance, but out of a boyish inability to stay still. He'd dance in the kitchen with no music. Start a sentence and forget to finish it. Leave half a cup of tea in every room of the house.
But Sundays were sacred. Lemon water and blackcurrant jam. Him reading headlines aloud like a theatre performance. Her pretending not to laugh.
He'd say, "Did you know seahorses mate for life?" as if he wasn't the one who sent her ten seahorse emojis when they had their first major fight.
She didn't cry at the funeral. At least... Not really.
But she cried the first time she saw a seahorse at the aquarium afterward. That tiny floating creature stopped her mid-step like a punch to the throat.
That's how grief works, at least, that's what she believes. It hides in sea creatures and lemon slices and unfinished books on your nightstand.
Today, the lemon is juicier than usual. She slices it carefully, making sure it's thin, just how he liked it. He used to say the bitter parts of life were best taken slowly, sweetened with just enough honey. He never said it like a metaphor, but somehow, it became one.
She sets the table. Two glasses. The pale light of early morning drips through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the floor like it always used to when he'd shuffle in, hair wild, eyes still heavy with sleep.
She catches herself watching the hallway, still half-expecting to see him there, rubbing his eyes, murmuring something about needing five more minutes. Unknowingly a smile slips, her eyes crinkled at the sight... Or was it?
She's pulled back to reality, all that's there now is a coat rack with one less jacket.
She sits. The other glass stays untouched, growing colder. Condensation trails down its side like slow-moving tears. She doesn't reach for a napkin.
Instead, she lifts her own glass, holds it to the light. In it, the lemon slice floats like a sun caught in water, delicate and weightless.
"To the noise," she whispers.
And takes a sip.
She spends the rest of the day meandering through moments. Flipping through old postcards he sent her during work trips. Rearranging his books, though she still keeps his favourite, The Little Prince, on his side of the bed. Sometimes, she even reads it aloud.
By the afternoon, she finds herself at their spot by the park, the one with the crooked bench under the jacaranda tree. It's shedding again. Lavender petals float around her like a blessing, like a whispered memory.
A boy nearby giggles as his mother lets him sip lemon water from her bottle. He scrunches his nose in delight.
"It's sour!" he says, and Myra chuckles, her heart pulling gently.
James would've loved that.
She stays there a while. Just breathing. Watching life unfold around her like a film she once starred in. And when she walks home, her steps feel lighter, not because the grief is gone, but because she's learned how to carry it better.
Grief doesn't leave. It lingers in rituals, in smells, in the quiet space across the table. But in remembering, we honor love. In tasting the bitterness, we rediscover the sweet. Let your memories sit beside you. Let them drink their lemon water, too. And perhaps... Just maybe you could overcome your grief too.