Sushi Grief - If grief could talk, what would it say?

Sushi by Kevin Itwaru

I have been with you for sixty months and two weeks, precisely one thousand eight hundred and seventy days. I have never left you alone; my presence is always near.

As you moved through the crowded aisles of the Asian market, searching for fresh fruits and vegetables, you felt a sharp jolt when you encountered my sudden anxiety. Heart racing, lump in your throat, you stood there, frozen for a moment, hoping no one else noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. I reminded you to "feel the feelings," a testament to your love for Kevin.

You find yourself standing in the aisle, overwhelmed by sadness, as you hold a jar of wasabi—the brand Kevin invariably used for his delicious sushi creations. The pungent green paste sits innocently on the shelf, a stark reminder of the culinary adventures you once shared on special occasions with Kevin and proudly shared on social media with family and friends. The thought that Kevin will never make sushi again hits you like a wave, leaving a heavy ache in your chest that feels almost unbearable.

You gently touch the cool jar, feeling an intimate connection to your son, and whisper, "I miss you, my son." Every word feels weighted with love and sorrow, echoing in the emptiness around you. You can't help but wonder, is this an unending journey of grief and memory you must now navigate alone? I whispered to your heavy heart and reminded you that you already have the answer in your mind. Is the feeling of being blindsided by grief your "new normal," a term that seems almost unimaginable? It feels as if moments like these, steeped in melancholy, are lurking around every corner in a supermarket — cereal and juice aisle, etc. There are way too many reminders of Kevin's absence. Your body and heart can only endure small doses of my cruel, gut-wrenching pain, confusing, overwhelming, and relentless in its grip.

I recognize that it can be an agonizing and painful journey, but it is the only path to work through the pain and loss. I am the expression of love, but you do not have to "give up" or "let go" of the one who died. The "buffalo running into the storm" metaphor describes facing grief and confronting challenges head-on rather than avoiding them (David Kessler). Sit with me and fully allow yourself the sorrow; no feeling is final. Everything around us is fleeting! Even the vibrant grass beneath our feet and the delicate flowers that bloom will eventually fade away. Life has seasons, each bringing challenges, and there are no quick fixes, hiding spots, or ways to run from this reality. God invites us to come to Him if we are tired and burdened, and He will give us rest (Matthew 11:28).

Yes, I can emerge quietly without warning or announcement, but it is a journey one must undertake when grieving a loved one. On Sundays, during church services, I tug at your heart with visible tears as you face the harsh reality that you will never see Kevin in a band or hear him play his trumpet or piano in church again. I acknowledge that I bring forth feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. But God promises to prosper you, not to harm you; He has plans to give you hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11). My presence here is not random; it carries a profound purpose of growth, learning, connection, healing, and recovery.

Engage with me—let your emotions flow as freely as needed. Cry if you must, scream your frustration, curse the unfairness of it all, or even kick at the ground angrily. Feel free to hurl unkind words in my direction as you navigate the turmoil of your heart. Allow the depth of your love and longing for Kevin to spill out, unfiltered and raw. I am here to be your steadfast companion through this journey, a presence you can embrace or push away as you see fit, but I need to be acknowledged and witnessed when I show up. The pain and sadness you carry will likely remain with you for the rest of your life, but softer. But in this time of grief, remember the promise that God will transform your sorrow, exchanging ashes for beauty and the oil of joy for your mourning (Isaiah 61:3).

I am your closest friend now, and my entire existence revolves around remembering your devastating loss. I will never leave you but teach you how to survive. I am the love you are left with, which continues in death. You don’t have to forget or leave your person in the past. This kind of love teaches how to offer empathy, hold a sacred space for others, and connect to a bereavement community in a meaningful way.