One Bright Day
The first time George laughed after Fred died it was at a giant spit bubble hanging from little Teddy Lupin’s lips and he had promptly clapped his hands over his mouth and ran from the room.
The next time was months later when Ron had tripped over the rug coming out of the floo and it had been so loud and startling that Ron hadn’t even berated George for laughing at his misfortune.
But laughter was something few and far between until one day when Angelina showed up on his doorstep and dragged him out of their his flat. Laughter that day had been self-deprecating and coarse. But it had been there. And slowly, George started to come back to himself.
With Angelina, there was no pressure to feel like he was fine. Because she wasn’t either.
She had loved Fred too.
They each knew how the other felt and so they could just exist together and allow life to wash over them. To allow time to do its thing and smooth the edges of their grief. Some days were harder than others. Some moments were harder than most. But that was what grief was.
A rising tide. A falling swell. It ebbed and flowed until the sea’s weren’t so stormy and the sudden squalls lessened. As the ocean of his grief brightened, his laughter returned. Rolling and rich, rising like gulls that lifted themselves on warm thermals filled with joy.
It was one such bright day that George turned and looked at Angelina with new eyes. The shadows of their shared grief had rescinded far enough that they no longer tainted every moment. That the turbulent open seas had calmed to smooth bays.
It was one such bright day that George laughed and knew he could open his heart and love once more.