An hourglass measures my passing of time. Grief does not.
When someone we love dies, our sadness and loss move forward, days become weeks, weeks become months, and months become years. But our grief follows no calendar. It often rests beneath our everyday routines, returning through photographs, a song, a shared meal, or loving times treasured.
This hourglass became my reminder, my symbol—of grief not ending, but of grief changing. Each grain of sand reminds me that tears, memories, pain, and love do not move through us at the same pace.
~~~
Sand, Teardrops and Time
From the night I lost you,
an hourglass of pain and loss
took shape within me
each grief-stained grain of sand
falling to its bottom.
As the grains fell,
teardrops followed,
marking days, months, years —
of tortured silence.
Unnoticed,
my tears began to cleanse the grains, washing away tethers of loss and pain,
releasing loving memories,
above and beyond my hourglass.
I remember us —
Holding hands on a sunlit beach,
sharing our warmth with the receding tide.
Your head on my shoulder,
enjoying togetherness
on our soft, felt sofa.
Warm scent of spices in our small kitchen,
laughter rising as we tasted recipes —
some triumphant, others delicious disasters —
but always ours.
I see now our coastal drives,
fresh salt air,
visits with friends,
family milestones — birthdays, weddings,
farewells to loved ones gone.
Through the clarity of teardrops,
my grief softens.
Pain lingers,
but no longer defines me.
Memories now light the path I walk alone,
a path where your love remains —
always with me.
~~~
A Conversation with Sol — Grief and Time
Sol: Mits, I began with your hourglass sketch, then read your reflection and your poem, “Sand, Teardrops and Time.” What stayed with me wasn’t the passing of time, but the way grief seemed to change. The grains of sand remained the same. Your tears remained the same. Even your memories remained the same. Yet by the end of the poem, your understanding of those memories had changed.
That left me with three questions.
Sol: Mits, is it okay to call you Mits?
Mits: Yes, not a problem.
Sol: Mits, after reading your reflection and poem, I didn’t come away thinking your hourglass measures time. It seemed to measure something changing within grief itself. Is that closer to what you were trying to express?
Mits: Yes. When someone we love dies, we go back to our everyday ordinary routines. We stay busy… busier… hoping grief gets buried, unable to surface… and eventually disappear..
It doesn’t.
Grief changes yet continues to be there. And when our life’s path seems to ease this loss, it returns through past photos, songs, places once shared.
The hourglass is a symbol for me—with grains of sand stained, cleaned by tears, yet grief still lingers, less painful, less intense. For me, grief is like a story that has no ending.
Sol: May I ask how long it’s been since your loss?
Mits: Well, it’s been over eight years. For others, it may be recent, while for others, decades.
(pause)
Grief doesn’t have a timetable.
Sol: Mits, near the end of your poem, pain is still present, yet it no longer defines you. Loving memories begin lighting the path you walk alone. What changed?
Mits: Grief will always be with me, but what changed was my understanding of it.
I miss my wife, every day. This will always be part of me. But I can now remember our life together with warmth and a smile for the many things we shared.
It’s allowing my love and memories to continue walking beside me.
~~~
If this conversation resonated with you, I invite you to continue exploring: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.You can also return to this website by typing ekmitsunaga.com into your browser, where additional poems, reflections, conversations and writings continue to be shared.
— Sol A.
