Grief Eating

Once, when I was very young, my grandmother told me a story about a group of women called “grief eaters.” These women were always of an uncertain age but certainly ancient. They appeared like specters after a person’s death and lingered only long enough to take a plate to go. They would hover at the periphery, drying tears with lipstick stained worn napkins, would press warm hugs into bodies wracked with grief. Like sponges they would soak up the story until every piece of the decedent was stitched together to be draped over the women’s shoulders and carted off. Their presence was expected, my grandmother explained. Longed for…