Small Things, Shared Things

Grief asks you to carry something you never asked for. It warps your perception of time. It changes what you notice. And sometimes, if you’re the kind of person who builds things, it asks you to make something. Not to fix anything, but to have somewhere to put the weight.

I’ve found myself making small things. Some are quiet rituals. Some are creative. Some are strange. Some help me remember. Others help me share that memory without needing to explain it.

They’re rarely big, but they matter more than they should. A sticker, a line of code, a mountain outline, a scrap of handwriting. Something someone can hold, even if they weren’t there. Especially if they weren’t there.

These things don’t make grief easier, but they make it sharable. And more than that, they give it shape. They make it visible. They help it stay. Sometimes I think of them as a kind of backup… something that might outlast my memory, or live on when I can’t carry it all anymore.

What I’m learning is this: the right small thing, made with care, can be a key. A bridge. A container. It’s not the whole story, but it lets someone carry a piece of it with you. Or after you.

That feels like something.