There are moments in a life when the world becomes impossibly quiet. The familiar rhythm of days continues, yet something inside you has changed shape. You move through rooms that once held laughter and conversation, and they feel larger now. Or perhaps it is you who has grown smaller. Grief is like that. It rearranges you.
My wife, Vera, passed from this world with the same grace that marked her life. The loss is recent, and the ache is still sharp, yet even through that ache I find myself reflecting on what her presence meant. She had a way of softening the hard edges of living. She carried patience where others carried worry, and she gave comfort without being asked. To love someone like that is a privilege. To lose them is a wound that does not close easily.
As a physician, I have spent years watching families navigate sorrow. I believed I understood it. I believed that being near so much loss had prepared me for my own. But the truth is simple. Nothing prepares you for the absence of the person who shared your history, your routines, and your quiet moments. Grief is not an event. It is an altered landscape.
There is a strange clarity that comes with loss. You begin to see how much of your strength came from another person. You notice the empty chair at dinner, the quiet house at night, the time of day when a familiar voice should have arrived. These small absences carve deeper lines than any dramatic moment of parting. They are the daily reminders of a bond once held, now beyond reach.
Yet even in grief, there is a kind of light. It arrives softly, without announcement. It can be found in the memory of a shared look, a familiar gesture, or a story told by someone who also loved her. It can be found in the kindness of friends who stand close without needing explanations. And it can be found in the strength that slowly returns, not by pushing away sorrow but by allowing it to settle where it must.
Vera’s funeral will be held on December 6. For those who cannot attend, it will be streamed, allowing her many loved ones to share in her remembrance from wherever they are. She touched more lives than she ever realized. I take comfort in knowing that her memory will continue to move quietly through the people who knew her.
Grief is not a sign that love has ended. It is the proof that it was real. It is the echo of a life shared with depth and devotion. And though the sorrow is heavy, it carries within it the shape of gratitude. Gratitude for the years we had. Gratitude for the woman she was. Gratitude for the way she lived and the way she loved.
In time, grief becomes less a storm and more a tide. It rises and falls. It pulls you under and then sets you gently back on your feet. You learn to walk again, not because the loss diminishes but because the memory becomes a companion rather than a wound.
This is the shape of grief. It is painful. It is sacred. And it is the final testament to a love that endures beyond the boundaries of life itself.
