Grief is a Room
Hello,
Last week I wrote about losing my mom. Today I want to share a note about grief.
The days have been difficult, and I haven’t been writing much. I imagine some of you might be wondering, “What is this newsletter anyway? What is Quick Brown Fox?” Well, here’s a pass on that question, along with a little personal state-of-the-union:
Quick Brown Fox is the personal newsletter of Salman Ansari, an author, illustrator and software engineer. The topics he writes about evolve with his own passions and interests. QBF is not a single-topic newsletter. There are many such focused newsletters out there, but this is not one of them. For the past few years, Salman has been writing and illustrating fables with animal characters, sharing some of them in QBF. In 2024, he published a book of fables, Wandering Spirits. Since then he’s written other stories, and had an idea for another book, but after the loss of his mom he’s had to take a step back and reset. Big projects feel too overwhelming right now, so he’s taking it one small step at a time. Lately he has really taken to caring for birds in his backyard, and plans to start writing little “bird bios” with drawings and descriptions of their unique personalities. Salman also likes to share his favorite books, short films, and links on creativity. You might say the special ingredient in QBF is the element of surprise—you never quite know what he’ll share next.
So there you have it. I hope something in there interests you, but if not, no worries. You can always unsubscribe using the link at the bottom of every email I send. Either way, thanks for being here.
Onwards,
Salman
Grief is a Room
People you know come knocking on the door. They bring candles. Even the light of their little fires blinds you; your eyes are used to darkness.
They ask you questions with no answer. Some know better, and sit with you in silence. Others give you food you can’t taste.
As they each take their leave, they turn and give you a brief look, hoping you’ll join them. They shut the door gently behind them.
Their gifted candles wilt away. The darkness returns.
You sense that everyone outside is waiting on you. You hear the tapping of impatient feet, the ticking of a clock building up to alarm.
Tick tock.
“How are you?”
Tick tock.
“Are you feeling better yet?”
Tick tock.
“You’ve been in here for a while now. Isn’t it time to move on?”
Part of you wishes they’d all just leave you alone. Maybe then, the one you lost will come back. You ache for a miracle to return the missing piece to your broken puzzle, to fill the black hole in your soul, to thaw the frozen limb your brain knows is gone but your heart refuses to let go.
You wonder, more and more each day, where we go when we disappear, and whether they’ll be there waiting, if you followed them into the unknown.
All you know is, you cannot leave the room.
Not yet. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
This is beautiful and true. Thank you for sharing Grief is a Room.