Grief has no timeline.

It's been three years since my parents died. And in that time, I've found the feelings of profound sadness that used to overwhelm me have been replaced by memories that make me smile, laugh and remember how very special they were. It's been so nice not to come down with a case of grief-related melancholy, or as I call it, "the sads," as often.

But recently I was reminded of something: Grief has no timeline.

My husband and I were returning home from breakfast and saw a sign for an estate sale. We decided to stop in so he could treasure hunt (one of his favorite past times).

 Once we wove our way through the throng of antique-seekers and into the old home, we encountered tables and shelves filled with items accumulated over a lifetime: dishes, artwork, jewelry, clothing, tools, hobbies, crafting supplies, holiday decorations and the like.

Then it got weird. For me, that is. The more I saw, the tighter my chest got. Then came the sweats. "Good grief," I thought, "It's a damned panic attack." It was as if I was right back in my parents' home, looking through dresser drawers, kitchen cabinets and long-forgotten boxes ... and trying not to cry my eyes out the entire time because it was all so very sad. In one night, they went from living independently (well, sort of) in their own home to being thrust into care, from which they'd never return.

And so, with tears in my eyes by this point, I found my husband among the estate sale crowd and said, "I have to leave." His expression went from confused to understanding. He led me out of there and drove us straight home. I remember telling him, "I can't believe this is getting to me."

Luckily, I shed "the sads" within a couple of hours — a drastic improvement from hanging onto them for a day or two like I did when my parents' lives were unraveling in real time.

That night as we headed out for an evening with some dear friends, I still felt a tinge blue. We enjoyed a lovely dinner and then went to a club to hear their favorite band. Imagine my surprise, and joy, when the singer started belting out lyrics to an old swing song that my mother used to sing herself ... and sing to me. It was a hug from heaven. No more "sads."

This much I know: Grief not only has no timeline: it also hides in the corners. I used to run from it when it showed up. Now, I let it run its course. But I also look for the light — and let it in.