Grief changes what matters. I have less road rage now that my wife is dead. People still drive like assholes, but I don't let it bother me. I also worry less, these days, what people think about me, unless they're thinking of ways to resurrect my wife. But now, a single baggie of popcorn can tear me to pieces -- chocolate-covered popcorn.
Like any red-blooded, non-Communist American, I like popcorn, and I like chocolate. I'm not over-the-moon about chocolate-covered popcorn, specifically, but it was a favorite of my wife's. So when I was at a chocolatier with my folks recently, I decided to get a bag to remind me of her. And later that evening, when I came downstairs, and I saw someone had eaten some of my popcorn, I had a griefburst, stumbling and sobbing around the kitchen. A griefburst regarding popcorn.
The next day, my mom actually came to me about the popcorn, and I told her that it was mine. Which promptly gave her a griefburst. She ate the popcorn for the same reason I wanted it: to think of my wife. Remember, this is not an antique pocketwatch she pawned, or an heirloom Ming vase she broke, or an original Van Gogh she Sharpied a mustache on: it's popcorn. She felt terrible, and I felt terrible. But a $3.75 bag of chocolate-covered popcorn + grief = priceless.
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