After last month’s column touched on the serious social issue of homelessness, I thought this month we would go for something slightly more light-hearted. So, let’s talk about grief.

Grief isn't a one-size-fits-all affair. Some people express their sorrow through tears and tissues, while others could win an Oscar for ‘Best Actor in a Role of Utter Stoicism’.

There are folks who immerse themselves in work and file away their feelings; those who seek solace in a pint of ice cream (or maybe two, no judgment here). The thing is, there's no ‘right’ way to grieve, despite what every self-help book in the world might suggest.

It’s an emotion that strolls into your life like an uninvited guest, kicks off its shoes, and stretches out on the couch indefinitely. It shows up with no warning, no expiration date, and certainly no manual. It’s also a shapeshifter. For some, it’s a dramatic sobfest; for others, it’s more like forgetting where you put your keys—except instead of keys, it's your will to live.

One thing I have personally found and observed in others, is that you might feel like you’re making great progress, think you’ve conquered the teary phase, only to burst into tears at the most unremarkable of things. This is what the poem I want to share with you all is about. Those quiet moments that grief sneaks up on you and shocks you all over again.

So, if you're mourning, however that looks - whether you're laughing at a joke that would make your therapist wince or throwing yourself into an impromptu Netflix binge - give yourself a break.

Grief doesn’t care about timelines, propriety, or what everyone else thinks is ‘normal’. Your sadness is your own, weird and messy as it may be. And just like any uninvited guest, grief might linger for a while, but eventually, it'll stop hogging the couch. Until then, pass the tissues, or the ice cream.

Tea for One

I stand at the sink, staring at the weeping tap.

I register my raw eyes, mustn’t haven’t blinked in a while. I’m miles away today.

Auto pilot is on, one hand mechanically rotating the plates,

My energy abates as the other listlessly sponges off the residual gravy.

I made it just the way you like it.

My throat has a dry feel, I think I’m due a cup of tea.

I peel off the marigolds; once bright sunshine yellow, now faded.

Over the years the floral design on our wedding china has degraded,

But I still remember how vivid the colour was in the beginning.

I take out two cups.

Two teabags – Sri Lankan Ceylon - thrown into the silver teapot.

Two plates, a knife to cut the jam-smeared fruit scone we will share.

Two teacups, a pair, the sweet pea pattern complete when they’re side by side,

Two halves of one perfect picture I’ve looked at for years.

Then auto pilot is disabled abruptly, tears begin to creep from my raw eyes.

I realise.

It’s just tea for one.

You are gone.