LYS

The LYS closed. Not a word on its social media. Phone still goes to their normal voicemail. Google JUST updated today. I had planned on spending my christmas money there for some equipment and accessories.

This is the sense grief makes.

Because seven and a half years ago, I was crying at my spinning wheel until 6 in the morning, working on 4 ounces of rough karakul from them, unable to stand up from the pain in my abdomen. I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. I missed the only spin in and fiber bar I had ever planned to go to, bent over and bleeding in the ER. The grief I felt, albeit numbly, at what was going on, wove itself into the disappointment of missing the event. Because even though it seemed frivolous and unimportant - a spin in among friendly people felt like the real world. And I was in some alternate dimension, being infused with morphine, unable to join them, unable to reach their pleasantness or joy. On that day, I was separated from that world, and my grief spun itself a story using the language of something mundane.

A couple of weeks later, I went to a fiber festival and spent the money I would have used on the baby on soft things, pretty things, things that felt like the real world I craved and missed.

That local yarn store was a connection to the life I lost in 2012.

Of course, that's nuts, they are just a business, and businesses close, and I could rarely afford to visit them anyways. I am grateful for the visits I did have.

But I feel alone tonight.

Like my grief lost its voice, and the hum of the wheel feels far away and lonely, and I feel so quiet and just

sad.