Good Grief

The inside of Susan Griffin’s suburban cottage was cozy, warm, and bright.

Her living room, which was painted a soft shade of pearlesque pink, was set aglow by the many drape-clothed lamps. The carpet, which was as thick and padded as a sandbank, cushioned with care. Small porcelain forest figurines dotted the desks, fireplace mantel, and bookshelves, and to Laura Leach, the newest member of Good Grief, it appeared that rabbits were Susan Griffin’s favorite animal.

And perhaps what was even more prominent in Susan Griffin’s living room, were the many, many pictures of a young boy with white blonde hair, looking to be no older than ten. He had dimples, and a nice smile.

Against the back wall stood a swollen buffet table, with goodies galore sprawled out. A few women (and you should know, only women were accepted into Good Grief) were perusing the table, stacking their plates high with snacks. More women filtered in through the front door bundled in scarves and coats, carrying purses and saran-wrapped treats.

Laura looked around not knowing where to sit, because almost every seat in Susan Griffin’s living room— the double sectional, the lazy-boy, the rocking chair, the love seat, and the small stool crammed in the corner— was taken.

This much was true, it seemed to Laura: Women wanted to be here.

And she did, too.

So, after taking a sugar cookie from the table, Laura made her way to the open spot next to a rather plump woman sitting on the love seat. The plump woman wore a red, fuzzy sweater with the word Noel stitched sideways in big, bold letters.

“Hiya! Bit chilly out there, don’t you think?” The woman beamed at Laura, and Laura smiled back. “New around here, aren’t you? Haven’t seen your face before. What’s your name? Oh fiddlesticks, don’t answer that! Susan will have a hissy fit if we do introductions before housekeeping.”

Laura followed the plump woman’s gaze across the room, and it landed on the thin, pale woman sitting in a wooden rocking chair.

Clad entirely in black, this woman wore no makeup, no jewelry, and what little was left of her graying hair was secured in a low, tight bun. She was running her hands along the back of a large, orange tabby that was curled up in her lap.

This woman— the woman, Laura thought— cleared her throat, and the few women still standing beside the buffet table hurried to their seats.

“Wonderful to see all of you again. It’s been, what, four weeks since our last meeting? How are we all feeling today?”

Some women sighed, others sniffled. One woman near Laura began to tear up. Susan Griffin offered a small smile, then continued.

“There, there, we’ll have plenty of time to get into everything. But before we do, I want to thank you all personally for being here. Please, help yourselves to refreshments and make yourself at home. But no one cut into Maribel’s infamous devil’s food cake just yet, we’ll save that for dessert!”

Susan Griffin walked over to the buffet table and grabbed a handful of napkins. Then, she sat back down in her rocking chair and handed the stack to the woman on her left.

“Everyone, please, take one and pass it down. I already see a few of ya’ll dropping crumbs! Yes, yes, I’m talking about you Bev! Stop spilling the bean dip!”

Bev, who did indeed have a plate overflowing with bean dip, mouthed sorry, and swiped at the floor. It was then that Laura noticed all the furniture in the room was covered in plastic.

“I am a stickler when it comes to messes, aren’t I?” Susan laughed, and so did the rest of the women.

“Alright ladies let’s move on to a bit of housekeeping, shall we? First item of business: I’d like to welcome our newest member, Laura Leach!”

Everyone in the room began to clap and stare at Laura, and Laura, not one for attention, blushed, then waived back.

“Sincerly, truly, welcome Laura. We feel honored that you chose Good Grief to be the space in which you tell your story. All of us here, we see you. And I mean that— we really see you. Every single person in this room has lost someone they loved dearly, and we’ve learned to lean on each other. To learn from each other. To be quite frank, God knows where I’d be without these lovely ladies.”

Susan nodded in the direction of a few women, and they bowed their heads, silently thanking her. Susan swallowed, “And so, Laura, let this group guide your sorrow. Let us be your life line. For there is such a thing as good grief.”

The room erupted in applause and Laura began to clap, too. Susan Griffin smiled.

“Thank you, thank you. Now, since we have a new member today, I want to go over the group rules: This sacred space abides by the laws of confidentiality, respect, no judgement, and no advice-giving, unless asked of course— That means you, Nellie!”

Susan Griffin pointed a bony finger at a woman with short black hair, and the woman, Nellie, Laura supposed, raised both her hands in a gesture of defeat, chuckling along with the rest of the group. After the laughter died down, Susan continued.

“Remember, this is a closed group for women only. We are very proud of that, here at Good Grief. Laura dear, you should know we have an extremely long waitlist— longest in town, to be exact. Women are just dying to get in. But we select our folks from the waitlist with great care and great consideration. You must know that, Laura. It is because of great care and great consideration that you are here with us today.” Many of the women nodded adamantly, still staring at Laura, as if wanting to make sure that she really understood.

“And since we are such an exclusive group, we cap our member number at 25. You’ll notice Laura, if you look around, that there are 26 members here today. Well, 27 if we include my little Tabitha, here!”

Susan looked down at the orange cat still curled up in her lap, and a few awws and ohhhs were murmured throughout the room.

“Which means later tonight, at the end of our session, we will have to release a member.”

Many of the women sighed, or shook their heads. Susan held up a hand.

“I know, I know. It’s never easy choosing someone to be released. But we always try to be fair, don’t we? And select the woman who has shown the most growth.” Susan placed a hand on heart.

“Tonight won’t be easy on any of ya’ll, but I know every single one of you will make me very proud.” Once again, the room erupted in a roar of applause. Susan paused for a second, then held up a box of tissues.

“Just know, I’ve got Kleenex practically coming out of ears, fidget spinners in the center console, and essential oils in that drawer right there by Diane— Diane, open the drawer so everyone can see.” A woman with long blonde hair opened the drawer next to her and selected a small lavender vile, holding it up for the group to see. Susan Griffin nodded.

“So, if at any point any of this is too much for ya’ll, just grab a tissue, take a deep breath, and let us help you. Remember, you’re not alone.” All the women in the group were smiling at one another.

Susan reached a hand into her dress pocket and pulled out a box of matches. Then, she struck a match against the side of the box, and, while the flame was alit, whispered, “Ladies, let’s get to work.”

Susan touched the tip of the flame to a tall, lavender candle sitting dead center on the coffee table. The candle flame, once lit, bobbed back and forth, gently. As if on cue, each woman in the room bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Laura followed suit. Susan Griffin spoke is a soft, soothing tone.

“And now, I want to take a moment of silence. A moment to remember your loved one, and everything they meant to you.”

Laura thought of Eric, his smile, the way his hands held a cup of coffee. She felt tears begin to pool, and when she opened her eyes, the round woman sitting next to her offered her a tissue. Laura took it, gratefully.

Susan Griffin cleared her throat, her eyes soft.

“Now, take a moment to set your intention for tonight. What are you feeling? What have you been holding onto that you want to release, that you want to purge? There are no wrong answers here, and remember, there is such a thing as good grief.”

Not one woman in the room shifted or stirred. They each remained perfectly still, and silent.

Susan Griffin smiled. “That’s good, that’s real good ladies. Well done. I can feel our collective energy getting lighter by the minute. I’d like to keep this momentum going with open sharing. Let’s go around the room and, only if you feel comfortable of course, share our name, the name of the person we lost, and a favorite memory about them. Laura, honey, would you like to kick us off?”

Laura nodded, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hh-hi, everyone, my name is Laura Leach, but, you all already know that, obviously. And the recently lost my husband. His name was, was—”

But Laura couldn't finish the sentence. She began to sob, and the plump woman sitting next to her put a hand on her back, rubbing gently back and forth.

Susan Griffin nodded once then said, “That’s quite alright, Laura dear, that’s quite alright. We know that losing someone you love can be… all consuming. Debilitating. Devastating. We hear you. We see you. I commend you for even trying to speak today.”

Laura lifted her head and met Susan’s gaze, blinking through the tears. Susan Griffin continued.

“Very well indeed. Alright, let’s keep the circle moving, we have a lot of women to get to tonight.”

The plump woman sitting next to Laura on the love seat went next, and her name was Maribel. She had lost her brother Bernie, and talked about the time they released chickens from the coup just to see what would happen— not knowing their wings hadn’t been clipped in weeks and they could now fly at least five feet high. Maribel and Bernie spent the entire night trying to catch those chickens before their parents came home.

Laura chuckled, picturing young Maribel dashing around the farm late at night, laughing while lunging for chickens, with her older brother.

The woman to the next to Maribel was named Francis, and she had lost her mother. Up until just last month, Francis had been taking care of mother, and everyday with her presented a new challenge.

“And this woman, let me tell you, she would just walk around and demand this and demand that. But that wasn’t the hard part. This woman, she refused, God help me, refused to put pants on. And trust me when I say this: she didn’t have no underwear on, neither!”

Francis had the room erupting in fits of laughter, and Laura had to hold her stomach because it ached from laughing so much.

With each woman’s story, no matter how tragic, poignant, or hilarious it was, Laura felt a little lighter, a little better. The pain was still there, sure, but there was now something else, tooL

Connection. Community. And care. A whole lot of care. Laura thought perhaps there was a such a thing as good grief, afterall.

When they got to the end of the circle, Susan Griffin began to clap.

“Alright ladies, well done, very well done! That was our best sessions yet, if I do say so myself. I can’t thank you each enough for being bold, for being brave. It’s inspiring, truly, inspiring.”

Laura, along with the rest of the women, were cheering and beaming at one another. But after a few seconds, Susan Griffin held a finger to her lips, silencing the group. She cleared her throat.

“Sadly ladies, all good things must come to end. And it is that time of the session, though. We only have about ten minutes left together, so this is a friendly reminder that since we added Laura from the waitlist, we need to release a member tonight.”

The women, who had just a second ago been absolutely glowing, were suddenly silent, still, and solemn. Laura was taken aback by their stiffness, and her smile dimmed, like water down a drain. She watched Susan Griffin, who was still smiling, though.

“So at this time, I request each of you to reflect on who you think has had the most growth here. And while you ponder, here are some additional prompts to help guide your reflection.”

Susan Griffin opened her notebook that was sitting on the coffee table, then cleared her throat.

“Who seems to have gained everything they could from this group? Who seems ready to move on? Who is the most at peace with the loss of their loved one? Who has healed the most? Oh, and Laur, honey, since today is your first session you won’t be voting.”

Laura nodded, then folded her hands tightly in her lap.

Susan Griffin stood from her rocking chair, walked over to a wooden cabinet, then returned with a large pink vase. She placed it tenderly in the center coffee table, turned it slightly to left, as if to center it, then said, “Alright ladies, you know the drill. You have 60 seconds to write down the name of the person you think should be released from the group. Here, please take one and pass it down.”

Susan began handing out pieces of colored paper and number two pencils. It reminded Laura of assignments in grade school.

In no time at all, those 60 seconds were up, and the women started dropping their answers inside the vase. After the last submitted her answer, Susan Griffin reached forward and shook out the contents of the vase in her lap. As she counted votes, Laura noticed some women were desperately trying to peek at the names, while others were adamantly looking anywhere else.

Eventually, finally, Susan Griffin had an answer.

“Ladies, ladies, I must say, another job well done! There was an almost unanimous vote. And so today, Good Grief will be releasing… Maribel!”

As soon as Maribel’s name was announced, everyone clapped ferociously— everyone that is, except Maribel.

For Maribel’s face quickly drained of color, and her hands, which held a half-bitten cookie, trembled. Susan Griffin was grinning.

“Maribel, dear, we are ever so proud of you! What an honor this is. We must celebrate! Francis, please prepare dessert.”

Francis stood up then made her way the refreshment table. She picked up the devil’s food cake Maribel had made, then placed it in the center of the coffee table next to the still lit candle, along with a large cutting knife.

Susan Griffin nodded, and two women stood up. Then Maribel began to cry.

“Please, Susan, I–I need this group. Really, I still can’t imagine life without Bernie, and, and…”

But Susan Griffin held up a hand, cutting Maribel off.

“Now maribel, you know the rules. The group voted, and that’s that. Besides, you’ve shared that chicken story, what, how many times now? Too many to count! You’ve proven it, deary, you’re just not that sad anymore. You’re ready to move on.”

The rest of the women in the group were nodding, and Laura found herself nodding, too. Susan

Griffin reached forward and picked up the serving knife.

“Laura, can I kindly ask you to move, please? Since it’s your first time, you’ll just be watching, honey.” Laura stood up and walked over to the stool in the corner of the room, and the two other women who were already standing moved to Maribel’s side, sandwiching her between them.

Then, they grabbed each of Maribel’s arms, pinning her down. The cookie that was still in Maribel’s hand fell to the floor.

And then, as quickly as it started, it ended— for there was a flash of silver, a guttural croak, and then Maribel’s neck hung sideways.

Blood ran in rivulets down her chest, drenching her Noel sweater, and eventually pooling on the plastic cover in a corner of the love seat. And the orange cat, Tabitha, I believe it was, hopped up on the love seat, lapping and licking up the splatter.

Susan Griffin, still holding the serving knife, swiped it clean with a dish towel, then cut into the devil’s food cake. Serving generous slices, Susan handed the first plate to the woman on her left, then said,

“Everyone, please, take a plate then pass it down.”

And as Maribel bled to death, the women ate merrily, and upbeat chit chatter bubbled about the room.

“You know, this cake was Maribel’s best creation.”

“Yes, her very best!”

“Shoot! We should have asked her for the recipe before we released her.”

“Don’t I know it, my devil’s food cake never comes out like this.”

“Bless her heart, oh, bless her heart.”

When a thick slice of cake landed in Laura’s lap, Laura couldn’t tell if it was blood or raspberries oozing out from the filling. But regardless, Laura licked the frosting from her fork, feeling just a bit better already.

For she was certain, quite certain, that there was such a thing as good grief.