There is a grief that arrives before the goodbye.
It moves quietly, without announcement,
slipping in during the in-between moments—
when the house is still,
when my guard softens,
when my heart knows it is safe to release.

Sometimes it comes as a slow, tender trickle—
tears finding their way down my cheeks,
almost surprised by their own arrival.
Other times it comes as a wave—
full-bodied, breath-stealing,
leaving me sobbing in its honesty,
with nothing to do but let it move through me.

And then there are the moments of service.
Caregiver moments.
Hands busy, heart wide open.
Loving my Mom up in all the ways I can—
with patience, presence, tenderness.
Honored to be walking beside her,
grateful beyond words that I get to be here for this

This is the bittersweet rhythm of anticipatory grief—
the deep gratitude for these final chapters
woven together with the knowing
that they are, in fact, coming to an end.
It is love already grieving its own loss,
even as it continues to show up fully.

I know this path is familiar to so many
who have walked alongside aging parents—
this simultaneous holding of thankfulness and sorrow,
devotion and heartbreak,
love and letting go.

Tonight, and every night,
I whisper a prayer for peace.
Peace for her body.
Peace for her spirit.
Peace as she makes her way home.

And for myself,
the willingness to feel it all—
the tears, the love, the grace—
one sacred breath at a time.

Delta Ori Nahimana