The Tangled Thread of Grief

Sometimes I think of grief like an old woollen jumper. It’s the knitwear you fold at the bottom of your drawer, only getting it out on the coldest of days or in the very midst of winter.  

Sometimes you only wear it on Christmas day, or on a special date that no one else celebrates.

Once it’s enveloped you, you fold it away again, smoothing down the fabric with your fingers in a private ritual, like the most sacred of things. 

It fits you perfectly, like woollen skin, a seamless extension of yourself. Somehow it seems like you’ve never been without it, never seen a sunny day. You wear it for weeks, sleep in it, never prise it off your skin.

Sometimes you forget it’s there entirely, tucked away in a bottom corner, and it doesn’t cross your mind all year. Then suddenly, while looking for another jumper, you stumble across it unexpectedly. Your fingers brush the fabric, your heart lurches, you clutch it in your hands, take in its weight, its scent. 

Sometimes it’s exactly what you need, a layer of warmth. Sometimes it’s too tight, too constricting, and it makes you uncomfortable, too hot, and you tug it off before you become consumed in comfort. Sometimes it gets stuck on your head and you feel claustrophobic, gasping for air, tears hot on your cheeks, tugging at the fabric, but you can’t see the light, you’re trapped. Eventually out of nowhere you are free, your head discovers the air which cools the remnants of tears on your cheeks. 

You try to sew it, to stitch it, to wash it, but it never sticks. Every time you try it on it becomes more ragged than before, until mending it seems like a fruitless task. 

I pulled at threads over the years, for grandparents, for pets, for divorce. When I was 19 years old I pulled a thread for my dad that I thought would never stop. My hands were full of yarn, fingers tangled. I was sure if I pulled it enough it would run out, the jumper would finally be gone, but the more I pulled the more the threads grew, and tightened, and thickened. Last year I pulled threads for my furry companion who would never play with them with her paws again. There are so many threads left to pull. 

 Sometimes I think of grief like an old friend; they know you best and it’s always the same even if you haven’t seen them in a while. You tell them things you don’t tell anyone else. They’ve known you since you were young, the first time you cried because the world seemed frightening and unfair, and they’ll know you until you’re old and you grieve for the ones you’ve lost and the time that’s passed. 

And each time you lift up your arms, like you did as a child, and they tug the sleeves down and help you put your jumper on. 

Written by Ally McLaren
Editor

Hi, I’m Ally, Editor of This Modern Struggle Magazine.

You may have seen my writing in Mouthy Magazine or Darling Magazine. I currently work in Marketing and PR and do freelance copywriting on the side. I also have experience in journalism and feature writing for women’s magazines and national press.

When I’m not writing you can find me eating pizza, stroking my cat and watching true crime documentaries.

I started this magazine for all the fellow strugglers who feel the same way that I do; like everyone else has it all figured out and you just don’t know what you’re doing in life.