Author: E.K. Mitsunaga

Grief and Loss — The Hourglass

I turned its sand-filled half to the top — beginning its time count. And as I watched each sand grain, among others, falling together to its bottom half, I felt something deep within asking for light. 

Silently these white grains dropped and landed gently creating a mound, then collapsing to start another one. Each grain a fragment, connecting with other grains, reminding me of memories past.

As the last one dropped, I touched this hourglass gently, and from within it came flashes of memory — Of a sunlit beach. Of my loved one’s head resting on my shoulder. Warm scents of spices.

I took a deep breath and exhaled in rhythm with the hourglass and its grains of sand, taking me back to my memories of Sand, Teardrops and Time, a poem I had written in Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.

If flashes of grief and loss resonate with you like grains of sand in an hourglass, then maybe we’ll share more paths in —

Grief Silenced
Grief’s silent pain
lives in those words we didn’t say —
the promise unspoken,
the apology withheld,
the truth whispered, in memory.
And sometimes,
silence is the loudest ache we carry.

Excerpt from: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths

There are times I wonder if I said enough, did enough, or cared enough. These questions return quietly, not asking for answers from others — but from somewhere within me.

At times, I find myself writing them down. Other times, I carry them in me throughout the day, as they settle and take shape. And in those quiet moments, I find myself speaking — not aloud, but within myself — to the ones who are no longer here.

I say to them what was not said, and what was left undone.

These moments do not answer everything. But they soften grief’s silence.

Explore these paths we share in:

Throughout each year, a special memory is triggered — from a photo, a jewelry box, a starry night.

I remember March 10, our wedding day.
With this memory comes a tinge of sadness and a bouquet of smiles, bringing forth an image of our gold wedding bands — now carefully laid, touching each other, forming a figure eight.

For me, it’s a bond of then, now, and forever.

An excerpt from Gold Rings Bonded:

Two gold rings rising
toward a moonless night sky,
their emptiness catching
the shimmer of distant stars.

And through their hollow centers,
memory glows —
of stories deeply etched
throughout their outer edges,
holding the eternal love
of life together shared.

Other memories also return —  
of loved ones lost — family members, friends, even pets.

They leave us — but gift us with memories.

Explore these paths we share in:

and know that you are not alone.  

The plate I dropped on the kitchen floor bounced and spun with a wobbly sound, slowed and came to a standstill.

Then a flash of memory — a breakfast table from my past — morning sunlight coming through the window, a table set for two, coffee cups, plates, silverware, napkins. The coffee was fresh, hot, and steaming. One cup was untouched.

This is my ninth season since her passing into the forever. And still, something as simple as dropping a plate in the present can bring all of that back.

I can write about it now and even talk about it if someone asks. That wasn’t always the case. It took me years to get to this point. For you, it might take less time, or more time, or happen in a different way.

The changes I’ve gone through over these years, I’ve tried to put into words — not to explain grief and loss — but to share with you what it has felt like as I’ve moved through it.

And if, in reading this, something touches you from your experience of grief and loss, then maybe this helps in a small way — just knowing that someone else has felt it too.

Permit me to share with you a part of my poem titled, The Physicality of Grief:

From darkness
comes the morning sun,
through kitchen shade,
to kitchen table.

Two chairs wait,
one filled with warmth,
one cold and empty.

Coffee brews.
Two cups filled,
steam rising,
one untouched.