Writing While Grieving 20: Losing Touch

Grief Is Physical

Writer-Type

Nov 03, 2025

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Alone in Madrid.
The Eilen Jewell video just happened to be filmed in Madrid, by the way. It’s beautiful. Listen.
Sorry for the close-together grieving posts, but this trip, though it has been amazing, has done a number on me in that regard.
I thought I’d just do archives posts while traveling, but I’ve been journaling like crazy with that fountain pen, and I’ve written five newsletters, three of them while alone in Madrid. Travel and writing seem to be a good match.

[Previously]

Reading some books can be like striking gold if you’re prospecting for things to write about—or in this case, even when you weren’t prospecting at all. Here’s something else from Pond that got to me. The narrator is talking about dressing herself:

I never stopped knowing that the fingers pressing the buttons up through the holes would be the same fingers that would later push them back out again.

This is why I read fiction. This is why I (try to) write fiction. Reading this reminded me of how touch is gone from my life. Bennett is talking about being unbuttoned, and I know that’s the star of the show, and everyone is more interested in that kind of touch. I’m not downplaying that loss, but Bennett’s words reminded me of other moments, like when my wife saw my shirt wasn’t buttoned and then, for no reason other than touch, came up close to gently take matters into her own hands. My god, the sweetness of her touch. Or how when sitting beside me she often placed her hand on the back of my neck and softly stroked my hair. For me, this is one of the hardest things to be without. That’s why the hug dream I mentioned was so emotional. She was the only one who hugged me like that, and now, it’s just gone.

Little things loom large for me. To say I’m lonely, doesn’t describe the loneliness I feel. It goes beyond isolation. As our letters remind me, I no longer have the one to whom I could bare my soul and who trusted me enough to do so in return. There is no one in my life who speaks that language, whatever it is. And on top of that, now, she’s untouchable.

This is not to say woe is me (but, yes, woe is me). I want to make a point. In some of my writing/teaching newsletters, I talked about learning as being physical, how the things we learn, positive or negative, are written into our synapses. I wanted my readers to think of writing that way. It’s physical education. It’s part of us. This has implications for teaching and learning. This has implications, too. I want you to think about love being physical beyond the obvious part, not just sex, but touch. My body is so accustomed to her touch and to the sensation of touching her. It became a big part of how I existed in this world, part of who I was. Now I’m some kind of sensory deprived lab animal. What is this doing to me? I’m walking through this world like some raw phantom limb. I don’t think this is something you get over.

If you have touch, the kind of sweet touch I mentioned, in your life, don’t take it for granted. That’s all I can say. If you don’t have it, I hope you will soon.

The song up top is by a dear friend. It’s my favorite of hers. It’s hard to listen to now, let alone hear it in person.

I’d give the world if it were mine
To let these memories slip my mind
And wake up next to you one more time

Yes, I’d give the world if it were mine, but it isn’t. I’ve lost touch with my wife. I’m telling you, grief for the closest of loved ones is more than you expect, more than you can imagine, more than you can handle, and much more than even that. Most of what I’ve read about it seems to unintentionally downplay certain things. They don’t talk enough about how it fucks you up. You can be innocently reading a short story and be floored by the simplest detail. Something as ordinary as buttoning your shirt is forever changed. I’ll never stop knowing how the fingers pressing the buttons up through the holes will never again be hers.