Grief joys, an oxymoron.

When two words aren't supposed to go together, but they do.

Yesterday, I mistook a piece of cinnamon cake for a small ladybug-esque beetle and I placed the small bug in my mouth. It sat on my tongue enough to taste and it did not taste like cinnamon. I immediately grabbed it back out, still alive and a bit disheveled. Raucous laughter ensued as my children watched the entire happenstance. I took the small bug to the front door and set them free, where I am sure it will be telling all the other ladybug-beetle friends about the day they survived being eaten and spit back out. Just like I am telling you today.

My eldest ran out of the room to tell her younger sister what had just happened, most likely practicing her script she will tell every child that will listen on the school bus and then again at recess.

A happy accident - as no bugs were killed in this particular moment in time and all my children were laughing and myself, a bit disgusted and then laughing with them.

Inspired by the bug tasting, this week in my beloved writing club, we wrote with oxymorons as the theme to explore. Oxymorons being a figure of speech in which two words that would not logically go together, do. Examples being: happy accident, act natural, bittersweet, small crowd, jumbo shrimp. You get the idea.

This week, I wrote about grief joys. Have you heard of these? Me neither. I actually just made them up. I define them as moments amidst grief where you experience hints and pinches and wonderings of … joy.

Here is what emerged pen to paper (as I committed only to write sans screens in writing club) and have now typed it up for you: