10/16/2026
Grievers measure time differently.
I was talking with a woman earlier today and she mentioned that her husband had died 27 months ago.
Not a little over two years. Not "a couple of years ago."
Twenty-seven months.
I remember measuring time the same way.
First it was days.
After a month or so, it became weeks.
Then months.
And now, for me, it's "almost 14 1/2"
I haven't reached the full-year stage.
I've often wondered why we do this.
Maybe death creates a new reference point in our lives. There is suddenly a very distinct before and after, and the day our person died becomes the starting point from which we measure everything.
Maybe it's because grief is so granular in the beginning. We notice every day. Every week. The first Sunday. The first birthday. The first trip to the grocery store. The first time we realize we've gone an entire afternoon without thinking about them.
And perhaps counting gives us a tiny sense of control. Death is something we couldn't control. Grief isn't something we can control. But we can count the days, weeks and months. We can put a number on something that otherwise feels impossible to measure.
And then there's the strange contradiction of time in grief.
How can it possibly have been 27 months?
And at the same time:
How can it only have been 27 months?
Both can be true.
Maybe counting is also a way of maintaining our relationship with the person who died. Saying "27 months since he died" isn't simply reporting the passage of time. We're still placing them on the timeline of our lives. Still acknowledging that they were here. Still acknowledging that they matter.
Eventually the numbers get bigger because more life has accumulated around the loss.
Days become weeks.
Weeks become months.
Months become years.
But the person doesn't become less important because the number gets bigger.
The calendar moves forward. The relationship continues.
Sydney - Until Death Do We
