Grief is weird. I’ve said this at least a hundred times since losing Steve nearly three years ago. It doesn’t wait for an invitation. It doesn’t arrive when expected. There is no dress code or checklist. There are zero boundaries — it shows up when it wants, where it wants, and how it wants. There are special occasions such as birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries when I anticipate and fully expect sadness, only to find the tears stay away. There are random workdays when, for no particular rhyme or reason, I sit at my desk and pray nobody stops to talk because the floodgates are wide open.

And then there are days like today. Numb.

As a child, my family lived in the “suburbs” of a town with a whopping population of about 6,000 people. In other words, we lived on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. So when a new kid moved in down the road, it took about five minutes for us to become friends. Her name was Dawn, and she was friendly and bubbly, and we hit it off immediately. I believe I was in fourth grade and she was in fifth when we met, and weekends became adventures on our bikes or walking the back roads, sleepovers with Mad Libs and makeup, or afternoons listening to her parents’ albums from the 70s or our cassette tapes featuring Madonna or Cyndi Lauper.

As we got older, summers were spent sunbathing with baby oil on our skin and Sun-In on our hair. Topics turned to boys, clothes, boys, hair, boys. She started high school a year before I did, so I had the inside scoop when it was my turn to enter those daunting halls lined with lockers and smelling like floor wax and teenage dreams. Our conversations grew deeper, secrets became sacred, and tears were accepted without judgement. We called each other “Sis,” because that’s what we were.

Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Moments became memories. Life got harder. Dawn and I still talked, laughed, cried, shared secrets and dreamed dreams. When she got married, I was her maid of honor. When I was pregnant, she spent the night when my husband was working. We had each other’s backs — not because we always agreed, but because we always loved.

Like many childhood friendships, time and distance somehow slipped in; phone calls were fewer, miles were farther, and life got in the way. But when we reconnected, time wasn’t a factor. Our friendship witnessed love and loss, children growing and husbands leaving, aging parents and adult choices.

And cancer.

Steve’s cancer.

Then her cancer.

Steve’s passing.

And now, hers.

Grief is weird. Because even when you see it coming, it doesn’t always land like you think it should. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always scream. There aren’t always tears. Sometimes, it looks like staring at old pictures and feeling nothing.

Nothing but numb.