Room for Joy

Six months in, I laughed at something.
Then I felt guilty for laughing.
(room for joy)

It happened in the checkout line —
the cashier's terrible joke;
I laughed before I could remember
that my life was still broke.
And the guilt came quick as weather:
how dare the sun come out?
Like joy was some betrayal
of the grief I care about.

But I heard your voice that evening,
clear as the kitchen radio:
"Baby, I didn't love you sad —
don't you dare live sorrow-slow."

There's room for joy in a grieving house —
the table's big enough for both.
Laughter isn't leaving you behind:
it's proof of what you loved the most.

Room for joy. (both of them)
Grief and light. (both of them)
(proof of what you loved)

So I said yes to the birthday party,
danced one song, then sat one out;
cried a little in the bathroom,
came back grinning — that's allowed.
I'm learning grief is not a jail cell,
it's a room inside a home:
I can leave it, I can visit —
the door was never locked or closed.

'Cause I hear your voice most evenings,
clear as the kitchen radio:
"Baby, I didn't love you sad —
don't you dare live sorrow-slow."

There's room for joy in a grieving house —
the table's big enough for both.
Laughter isn't leaving you behind:
it's proof of what you loved the most.

Truth is, honoring you was never about staying broken.
You spent your whole life trying to make me laugh —
why would that be different now?
Every good day is a thank-you note on the kitchen table.
I'm writing more of them.

Mm. (thank-you notes)
Mm. (good days)
(the door was never locked)

There's room for joy in a grieving house —
the table's big enough for both.
Laughter isn't leaving you behind:
it's proof of what you loved the most.

I told the cashier's joke at dinner.
Everybody laughed. You would've loved it.
(room for joy)