Borrowed from deadbabymama

I'm borrowing this post from deadbabymama, because I think it is so perfect.

"Grief is like a well, a well that is so deep you can't even comprehend if or where it might end. You spend a lot of time in it, and eventually make your way to the top, where you hang out, sometimes inside, sometimes partly outside. Sometimes you are sitting on the edge, dangling your feet over the side. Very occasionally you leave altogether and the well just sits at the end of the garden; you always come back to it. Often you come back involuntarily, an incident or image or person drags you back, sometimes even lifts you bodily and throws you down deep. If you are lucky you remember where the footholds are, and where the chinks that your fingers fit in are and you can get yourself out a bit faster and with fewer cuts and bruises than last time. Sometimes you take yourself down to the end of the garden and flirt with the well. You dip a toe in, or lie on your stomach at the edge and peer down. You might throw stones down it, to see how deep it is. Occasionally you throw caution to the wind and step in, hurtling yourself down; afterwards you wonder why you are so cruel to yourself but you also recognize the rewards of remembering. You know that you can't have the memories without the well, so you accept it and even start to incorporate it into the larger landscape of the garden. You plant around it in ways that draw subtle attention to it, it becomes a place you don't avoid but you also don't approach it without awareness. Other people comment on the beauty of your garden, and the worthwhile ones include the well in their assessment. The well is part of your landscape, and you learn to live with it somewhat gracefully, sometimes even proudly; it is no longer deep enough to swallow all of your joy." (Posted on deadbabyblog, 5/1/06).