Living Life


The silence of winter starts to settle before the calendar turns the page on the seasons. As we sat in the hot tub yesterday evening, we observed the heavy cloud cover. A mix of misty raindrops wanting to become snowflakes made the clouds feel close, like we could reach out and pull them closer for comfort, for warmth.

I noticed the lack of noise as we sat in the dark, our silence comfortable and still. No more summer insects chirped, their songs hushed by a series of frosty tipped mornings. The heaviness in the air also drowned out the sounds of the distant interstate. No voices traveled from nearby yards as the families now stayed inside once the sun went to bed so early each evening. Too early.

Mid-fall nights so easily give in to early-winter days, the seasons speeding by before we’re fully aware of the happening. Sometimes I try to sit with it, try to feel the exact moment in which I’m living. Too often I worry about the future, the unknown, the big picture, so to sit with the quiet stillness of the present feels uneasy, even more uncertain than those curious days yet to come.

Here’s what I know about this present thanks to the silence and peace of last night:

We are not alone.

Even in the dark of a mid-fall night who pretends to be like one of mid-winter, someone is with us. Even when we don’t quite know what tomorrow holds, how we’re feeling now, or what to make of the past year, someone is with us. Maybe they’re sitting across from us, hair damp from the falling mix of rain and would-be snow. Or maybe they’re 600 miles away, catching a glimpse of the moon peeking out from the quickly-moving clouds, wishing they could be with us, reach out, anything. Maybe they’re a memory which pops up to remind us that we’re never alone. No matter what, someone is with us.

Time keeps moving.

Every day, the sun rises, even on days in which it sets too early and we’re left wondering if we’ll escape the darkness. The sun rises, the calendar changes, and we’re one step further away from that day. One step removed from our deepest of griefs, our happiest of memories, our confusion, our promises. We’re also one step closer to whatever remains. I didn’t say that time heals everything; it just keeps moving.

Healing looks different for everyone.

My healing looks like a long run on a Sunday afternoon, attempting to outrun my grief on the slow rolling hills of southeastern Ohio. The healing of others might look like a snuggle on a Saturday night or climbing into bed sometime in the middle of the darkest night because you know it’s the safest place on Earth. Laughing at a movie, a meme, a video, your dad’s wonderfully punny dad jokes. Throwing yourself into not one but two sports at once; giving your all on and off the field, the race course; a 4.0; a moment with your mom. Date night; family traditions; carving pumpkins for children who should be old enough to wield their own knives, right; sitting silently in a hot tub on a cold, dark night. It looks different for each one of us. We’re doing our best.

We will spend many more chilly nights in the hot tub, listening to the sounds of silence, thinking about the present and the future, trying not to dwell on the past. We will continue to heal, each in our own way, as time marches on, taking us step by step away from that darkest of nights. New seasons wait just around the corner of a calendar page. We will fall into them, together.

Family Parenting

He’ll Always Have Her

I looked up from my steaming cup of coffee and watched his little face crumple.

“What’s wrong, Booey?”
“I miss Big Mamaw,” he sobbed over his cereal bowl.

I quickly rounded the breakfast bar and pulled him into my arms. I made eye contact with my husband with one question in my eyes. Where did that come from?

She’s been gone over a year and a half now.

A year and a half.

Saying that knocks the wind out of me. We’ve lived through two of her birthdays, two Christmases. I’m coming up on my second birthday without her. She always made sure to send my card first. I don’t normally keep cards, but I didn’t toss the last birthday card she sent me in 2014. Maybe I was cluttered and running behind. Maybe I knew.

I miss her hand-writing.

The boys spent the weekend at The Farm, the culmination in a three week tour of their grandparents. They’d told me stories of riding the quad out the back 40 with Papau and taking a walk back the hollow with YiaYia—both of which take them right past my Grandma’s old home. And so when I looked at my husband with the question in my eyes, I figured the close proximity to her space conjured up some memories and feelings.

“It’s okay to feel sad, to miss her, to cry. I still miss her and cry sometimes too.”

He nodded and held me close. In fact, he didn’t let go for quite some time. I just let him hold on to me while I held him tightly. Sometimes we need to feel safe and secure in our emotions, our grief, our memories; we need to know we’re supported even when we’re not smiling and joyful.

If I’ve learned anything since losing Grandma, it’s that grief is not linear. Even for kids. Maybe especially so for kids because nothing kids do is linear. Two steps forward, eight steps sideways, do a little dance, growth spurt, emotional regression, oh hey! New phase!

We adults like to pretend we have our ish in line. I grieve in the proper order, all five steps, one after the other. Don’t mind me. I’m not crying in the corner. Chin up, buttercup.

Except that’s not true either. I’ll be fine for weeks at a time and then I’ll pull out the pink tablecloth to bring some Valentine’s Day cheer to the dining room and find myself sitting on the floor, clutching it in my hands while holding it to my face. Absentmindedly looking through old photos to find something fun to share for Throwback Thursday only to be sidelined by photos long forgotten, taken with my early high school camera; were we all ever that young?

He'll Always Have Her With Him

Oh, but I’ve yet to find a picture of her with my youngest son and it breaks me in two.

I’m thankful my sons feel safe enough to share openly regarding their own grief. It makes me feel less alone in my own grief, I suppose. I want to be one of those faithful women who accept death for what it is, who rejoice that my Grandma is no longer in pain, but I selfishly want her here with me. With us. I want to sit down at her table in her home, not at her table in my home. I want to eat her macaroni, not my macaroni that is her macaroni. I want to call her when the Cardinal birds return to my yard. And the hummingbirds. And the stupid red-winged black birds.

But she’s gone. And we’re here. All trying to make sense of it in our own ways.

I told my Dad about Booey’s breakdown. We both figured it was caused by the close proximity to her home over the weekend. And then my Dad said, “She’s in his permanent memory. He’ll always have her with him.”

I smiled as the tear fell from my eye.