They would press their hands into hers, trying to make meaningful eye contact. "Oh I am so sorry..." some of them would start, some would go directly to a personal anecdote about him. "He and I were...", "He was always so..." and then they would wait. Wait on something from her.
Like they all needed a piece of her grief to make theirs real.
Or sacred.
Or complete.
Then they would move along the line and the next person would start.
Over and over again. So many people taking little pieces of her away with them. Leaving pieces of their pain with her.
As if she didn't have pain enough on her own.
And she wondered if they would go home and feel they were done.
They had paid their respects. They had said their piece. Now they could move on.
Not thinking about what they left her with.
What would they think if she went to their houses the next day. One after another and shared a piece of her own grief.
"He and I were..."
then the next house
"He was always so..."
Just give them some of it back. Make them sit with that for awhile.
Would that be better? Would it lessen her burden?
She didn't believe it would. But the thought kept her from screaming in their faces as they came in a line "He was so..."
Pain shared is pain halved.
That was only true if you were sharing with someone who wasn't dealing with pain of their own.
Later they would all talk about how lovely she had been. How she had looked everyone in the eye and listened as they told her how important he had been.
"I think it really helped her..."
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