The thing about grief—the journey you involuntarily find yourself in—is that the time for condolences comes with an expiration date. There is a limit to those moments of bereavement that come pouring in like an avalanche of discarded, almost robotic messages, when everyone seems to care, or is genuinely concerned, or pretends to be—about your well-being, your state of mind, your spirituality.

The first hours, days, weeks, and months become a blur. It feels like a game of soccer, or maybe ping-pong, where the ball goes up and down only to return to the same place where it started. The most disappointing part of this game is when some you believed cared enough don’t even try to check on you. And yet, there are those you least expect, appearing out of nowhere, calling just for the sake of calling—to see if you’re okay.

They don’t always say much, but they say enough for you to understand their intentions.

I have come to value these sporadic conversations. They can feel “annoying” sometimes, as I struggle to pick up the phone, but I do it anyway—because I don’t want to postpone the interruption. Either I answer now or deal with it later. Why put it off?

I am grateful for them. I welcome them. They make the nights and days less heavy. For a moment, I don’t feel like a lost bird. The house feels full.