Beast Keeper
Grief comes to me in two forms, and each congers a distinct change in my psyche.
The grief of loss is a wild animal—lean, fast, carnivorous. A wolf. It arrives from afar with a howl that pierces the permeable air, teeth bared, eyes locked on yours. You sense it before you hear a low, mournful cry echoing through your bones. Its coat is thick and bristled, streaked with the scent of memory. It smells like scorched leaves and old perfume. It tastes like metal and salt. It doesn’t nibble. It tears. It takes. It leaves you breathless, stunned by its precision.
The grief of chronic illness is another mammal entirely. A Woolly Mammoth is slow-moving. Immense. It doesn’t hunt—it looms. It settles into your landscape, reshaping the terrain. Its coat is coarse, heavy, shedding in dreadlock clumps. It smells like antiseptic and dust. It tastes like bitterness diluted in lukewarm tea. It doesn’t howl. It hums. A low, constant vibration that makes your body ache.
One bites quickly. The other presses down for years.
They do different damage. The wolf of loss leaves visible wounds—tears, funerals, empty chairs. The mammoth of illness crushes slowly. It erodes identity, independence, the sense of being whole. You grieve the person you used to be while still inhabiting your skin.
And yet, over time, both morph into rhythms that shape your days, and nights, and weeks.
The weary wolf’s fur has softened. It paces at a distance, like a sentinel on a hill. You learn to feed it scraps of memory, to speak gently when it draws near. Intuition permits some trust. You know its patterns. You know when to brace for a sudden snap. The Mammoth. That unwelcome, Wooly Mammoth stops shedding, becomes a feisty companion, and you build your life around its weight. It refuses the eviction notices, so you give it boundaries. You give it a proper name. You learn what soothes it and what provokes it. The only thing you ask is for it to move slowly and gently.
And, you are no longer prey. You are a keeper of beasts. A witness. A soul wrapped in the coats of creatures.
Author’s Note
This piece began as a way to name two distinct griefs: the sudden loss of a close friend, and the slow, relentless presence of chronic pain. Beast Keeper is my attempt to honor both—to recognize their forms, their rhythms, and the strange companionship they offer over time.
Thank you for reading. May your own creatures be met with gentleness.