Because every day is a good day for Aerosmith.

A few days ago when I admitted that The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful is still floating around in my skull, wasting perfectly good brain cells, I received a beautiful comment from Marsha at Tumble Fish Studio:

I know you don't want to hear it necessarily, but there will be a time when you can finally let go of what's already gone. That's hard for most of us to do, to let go of what's already gone, and that's where our struggle comes in. We fervently and illogically try to hold onto something already beyond our grasp as it fades away with all that yesterday was - we prize it, try to keep it front and center in our memories and relive every drop of it. It's natural and we all do it. I love you Cha Cha.

Oh, and I love you, Marsha.

This comment actually blew me away - not because I didn't want to hear it, but because the sentiment is so obvious and simple and completely difficult.

I think letting go of what's already gone is such a powerful visual. I picture myself holding on to air as tightly as I can - my knuckles white, and my hands totally empty. It's wasted effort. But it's also the nature of grief - valid but not exactly rational.

So, when I find myself mourning, I'm trying to acknowledge the value of what I'm missing ... but also let it go, as it's already gone. So I might as well get with the program.

This sounds a little harsh. Someone I love very, very much is experiencing a deep, painful loss right now. And I want to fix it and I can't. But I would never tell her to get with the program - I want her to know that her grief is valid and that she is loved. And while the loss will always be there, it won't always hurt this much. But mostly? Mostly, I just want to sit next to her so she knows she's not alone.

So, maybe that's what I'm doing for myself with all of my couch time as of late. Me and Foxie Doxie. Hangin' on the couch. Regrouping. And being F-I-N-E fine.