Yellow Roses

The day this posts, April 11th, is my daughter's 20th birthday. No longer a teenager. Maybe not quite a full adult, but a day to let her know how much I love her, and how I wish for only good things in her future.

Rather than buy her some new gadget, I decided to spend a little extra, and let her know what I truly thought of her. She is my diamond. She was our diamond.

Many years ago, when my husband Michael and I were first dating, the day arrived for my daughter to celebrate her confirmation at our church. Even though we were new to each other's lives, Michael and I knew that we would be together forever, so we bought our daughter something special, something that would last through time. We bought her a beautiful white gold cross, with a single diamond in the middle. My daughter loved it. She cherished it then, and especially now. It has never left it's place around her neck.

Today as she opened the box that held two small diamond stud earrings, placed in a delicate white gold setting, her eyes beamed, and a lovely smile came across her face. Funny me, I didn't think that it would automatically take her to a sacred place in her heart. As I looked into her eyes, they began to change from pure joy, to bittersweet recollection, as her hand gently moved to embrace the cross that hung close to her heart. She looked down, but just as quickly raised her eyes back up to me, then moved across the table to give me a strong embrace.

We held each other silently, then she gave me her thanks. She began remembering the day that she received her first diamond, the first gift from us as a couple. She knew that this simple gift was an indication that there were now two of us where there used to be one. And though there were the typical bumps in the road that occur when a single parent begins to share his time with a new love interest, she, and her brothers, quickly realized the benefits to having two loving parents by their side.

As she sat back down in her chair, I could see where her thoughts were leading her, and I hoped they didn't take her to a dark place of grief. Instead, she allowed her thoughts to linger in a place of loving remembrance. "Dad. You know, if Michael were still here I would have received a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses." Yes daughter, I know. "Michael always gave me yellow roses. Every birthday. Every special occasion." We both took a deep breath, and smiled that knowing smile. Let's choose to be joyful.

Funny how a simple interaction with our children can be such a great teaching moment. Most people think of teaching moments as time for us to impart a lesson on our children, but in this case, I was the one taking in the wisdom through observation. I know that I won't always be in an emotional place to embrace such a lesson, but for today, I am wanting to emulate my daughter's approach. I want to smile, and remember the simple joys that Michael brought into my life. I want to place my grief gently beside me, knowing it will always be there, but giving myself a moment in time to smile, to appreciate, to remember.

My husband, all of our spouses, was so much more than a deceased spouse. I know it's so hard to remember this at times. I don't like that in my mind, he is now mostly thought of as the one who I lost, the one who died. I want to remember that he was very much alive, and that in my heart he can continue to be very much alive. I don't wear any jewelry, so there isn't anything for me to hold onto when wanting that tangible connection. I will have to seek it elsewhere. It will have to be found deep in my heart, and through my recollection of special moments, and simple little gifts.




Like yellow roses in a beautiful bouquet.

safety freak

Photo from here

My minivan has a back-up beeper installed and I never fail to safety goggles when required.
I realize that teenagers at the bus stop snicker as I stride by sporting my safety vest covered in all its' reflective glory and a red light flashing out a constant reminder of the whereabouts of my hindend.
And in the past, I would have worried that this safety gear would identify me as a complete dork. A safety freak. Now I see it as protecting my kids.
By wearing this protective paraphernalia, I am hopefully preventing the possibility of creating two little orphans.
I am terrified of leaving them alone in the world. Without Daddy....and then without Mommy.
I have stopped short of wearing bubble wrap beneath my clothing. But I do get my flu shot and wear a helmet when riding my bike. For my kids. I'll do it because they do still need me.

lurking tragedy

Photo from here...

Since the death of Jeff, I am ALWAYS searching for reason or explanation for each occurrance that unfolds in my life. I have become adept at looking for, and most often finding, the "brightside". Searching out the blessings. The gifts that, however difficult to see initially, reveal themselves as the shock of trauma wears away.

I have found that despite some very hard learning experiences, I seem to eventually bounce (almost) back. Although not unscathed by these events, I have found hope hidden in unexpected corners. It has been one of the gifts of losing the love of my life - I now can see clearly what is 'real'.

But now, suddenly, out of the blue, I am unable to climb back up. I am struggling with too much on my plate, too many issues needing to be dealt with and a grief that won't dissipate.

I smile and function. I do my job. I clean the house. I am struck by the kindness and love from others. But my heart is aching. The hope that I have been so able to suss out seems to have wandered elsewhere. All I can see is this life reaching beyond me with hurdle after hurdle to be leaped over. It doesn't seem to end and I am exhausted in every sense of the word. I miss Jeff with all my heart. I am suddenly fearful of the loss of my children to death. I feel like another tragedy is just around the corner at all moments. Lurking unseen to leap at me unexpectedly. Maybe this is why I feel that it will come - I don't want to be surprised so I force myself to expect it.

I don't understand why, now, after all this time, I am aching again. I know that much of my sadness and exhaustion is situational.....But these situations seem to keep coming.

I want to be hopeful and joyful. A testament to the fact that life goes on. But right now, I kind of wish it didn't.

Christmas together

Photo from here...

Tomorrow is the day that we have all been building up to in the last few months.
I am sure that, like me, you are overwhelmed, tired and emotional. Preparing for this day is, at the best of times, exhausting.....but alone, it seems unsurmountable.
Please remind yourself to breathe deeply. To be gentle with yourself and to allow peace into your heart.
And although you may feel alone, you are not. I am here. And you are here.

“May the spirit of Christmas bring you peace, the gladness of Christmas give you hope, the warmth of Christmas grant you love.”~Author Unknown

two hands where four are needed

I recently found a "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff Workbook". It is full of quizzes and exercises to force you to look inward at yourself. This introspection makes me realize that I am pretty 'normal' if not, less 'sweaty' than the average person. I've been really enjoying 'getting to know myself' in the 5 minutes I take now and then to complete a section. And it's interesting to compare 'me' now to 'me' before.
I am much more chill than I once was. Less worried about many of the problems that plagued me before Jeff died. That's not to say that they don't annoy/pester/frustrate/even terrify me - just less so now. Most of these issues will not kill me. They MAY force us to live in a cardboard box but, hey, at least we'd have a roof over our heads!
BUT when I read the tip the other night that directs you to do ONE THING AT A TIME, it made me jealous. That green eyed monster made me want to live the life of the people who have the luxury of completing one. task. before starting something new.
I know I felt that I was busy and always needed before, when I was a non-widow. But I was just a pussy.
I now cannot fathom walking down the hall without a pocket full of lego to deposit in my son's room, an armpit full of drawing tools to return to my daughter, a hand shoving the vacuum before me, a signed permission slip hanging from my teeth while dragging the laundry hamper along behind me on my way to the back door to stack firewood, fix the shed door and dig an irrigation ditch next to the driveway.
I am not sweating the small stuff. I am just trying to stay on top of two people's work with just two hands and one head. And sometimes, it really blows.

Teamwork

Our family received an amazing, unexpected Christmas gift of a very cool new TV. This weekend we went about shifting, rebuilding, figuring out cable connections, and placing the new gadget in the place of our old big screen. Somehow amidst the chaos, the daunting task of moving the old machine out to the garage ended up happening when the kids and I were home alone. 

As I stood looking at the old television, I remembered the day Phil and I brought it home. He we so excited. We bought the new big screen as a part of the house remodel that we did the year before he died. After months of scraping ceilings, removing wall paper, redoing floors, and repainting walls the house was finally ready for new electronics. Phil and I made a deal; I could do whatever I wanted with the home decor as long as he got to choose the new TV. Boy did he take advantage of that deal....his set of choice was huge. So moving it out of the house was no small feat.

I called the kids into the room and said, "We need to move this TV out to the garage." They looked at me, then looked at the monster set, and then we started discussing how to make the move. As we stood in our living room together brainstorming what to do I realized how many times over the past five years the four of us have needed to work as a team. Because we've been here before, the four of us, facing a task that usually is done by two adults collaborating, deciding, and then acting. But when Phil died I needed my kids to step up when one set of arms was not enough. I needed help when the plumbing overflowed, or the fence fell down, or the shingles were flying off of the roof in the rain. When I couldn't call out, "Honey!!" I instead called "Kids!" One or more of them would come to my aid, and somehow between us we solved all kinds of everyday problems. This seemed especially true during the holiday season when decorating, buying presents, purchasing and transporting a tree, hanging lights, and just making it through the hustle and bustle was so much harder in our single parent home. Whenever I reached the end of my rope, I counted on the only other hands in the house to tie a knot for me.

Grief has definitely stolen a portion of my children's innocence. They make statements now and then that cut me to the quick with their honest observations of life in the aftermath of loss. More than once I have wished I didn't have to count on them to be older, wiser, and sometimes braver than their years might suggest. The scars that grief has left on my kids are visible, and life changing, but as we took that huge television over the last step of our porch and smoothly delivered it into our garage I realized what a good team we have become since death walked into our lives. We are resourceful. We can count on each other. We know our team's strengths and weaknesses. We believe that we can solve problems together. Everyone has a voice. I would like to say that all of this was true before Phil died, and maybe it was, but we didn't know for sure until we were tested.

So this weekend, as we walked out of the garage high-fiving and celebrating another challenging task completed, we spontaneously started singing....we will, we will ROCK you! Five minutes later my daughter walked through the kitchen still humming the tune and I thought to myself...yes, yes we will.



the wishlist

My children are aware that Christmas is in 23 days. Already they are making their preparations for the big day. Snow flakes already adore most of the windows in our house, our advent calendar is hanging above the fireplace and letters to Santa are ready to post. After ruminating long and hard over what she would write, my eight year old daughter, Liv, stood up from the kitchen table with a letter for Santa clutched in her skinny, little hands. Hope and excitement lit her face.
"Do you think Santa can bring whatever you ask for if you only ask for one thing?", she whispered.
"It depends what it is, I suppose", I answered nervously imagining pink polka-dotted unicorns and hot-air balloon rides to the moon being requested. I was surprised when she handed over her note.
Her words make me vacillate between laughter and tears....
I don't know what I'd do without these little people who make life so much harder and some much more bearable in one motion.

P.S. Briar asked for a remote control monster truck taller than his head. Not as emotionally charged, but certainly enough to strike fear in a mother's heart. How the HECK is Santa going to pull off Christmas????

Roses for Deltha

Thanks to our guest blogger Jo Rozier for filling in for Michelle today, we appreciate you!

In what has become a tradition of ours, this Tues my kids and I placed roses in the sand. We tend to commemorate milestones related to my wife and especially the anniversary of her death by going to her favorite place, the beach. Inevitably whatever flowers we have wind up being planted ever so gently in the sand. Some years we'll add a short note and 'sign' the sand...others years (this year) we let the flowers speak for themselves, a silent testimony of love, one for another.


I pulled the kids out of school, put the dog in a kennel, took leave from work and rented a lodge on the ocean front. We made a day long event of our commemoration. Well, maybe not quite an entire day, we spent some time driving through our old neighborhood on Base and of course did some 'retail therapy'. It was a day largely spent recounting one happy memory after another. I never cease to be amazed or grateful at how much joy my kids derive from memories of their mother.

That evening in our lodge and without prompting, each child came up to me individually and shared with me a heartbreaking memory from their mother's death...one child remembered a final fight with their mom and wished they had been better behaved, another remembering the moment when I told them mommy was about to die. I never cease to feel pain at the wounds they now carry with them. Both received hugs and assurances; mommy loved them without reservation and it was no easier saying the words, 'mommy is going to die' than it was hearing them.

Overall, and by unanimous agreement, it was great day. Thank-you all for the cards, notes, Facebook posts and especially for the prayers. It mattered and made a difference.

Almost Married

By the time you all read this post I will be married. Even as I type these words I find that fact slightly unbelievable, because five years ago I was certain that my life was over. My heart was still beating, my lungs worked, my eyes opened each morning, but my LIFE was over.

I found the fact that the world as I knew it had stopped turning to be both limiting and liberating. On the one hand I was desperate to have my old reality back, and on the other I just wanted to move onto the next world as soon as possible. Either situation would have worked for me, because the point was to be with Phil again in one world or another, I didn't even really have a preference. Not caring was freeing, while desiring the impossible was infuriating. My days were marked by the swing of the pendulum...desperate, reckless, desperate, reckless. Looking back now I tremble at the memory of those days, and also marvel at the power of the human soul to somehow persevere. Because I have. Somehow I lived through the terrifying reality that my husband was dead, and that the life I reveled in was no longer available.

At one time surviving the absence of Phil from my daily life took every ounce of my energy. As I grew through my widowhood I began to see that recreating my life was actually a bigger job, made more complicated by the fact that not only did I lack the energy to create, but I lacked the desire. I wondered how I was supposed to manufacture a zest for life that I did not feel. Forgive me if you thought for a second that I actually have the answer to this rhetorical question. Because I don't. Personally, I consider the fact that a genuine enthusiasm for life has been returned to me a miracle.

(Disclaimer: I have been corrected before when using the word miracle, so I want to be very clear here. I am using the Michele Neff Hernandez dictionary of words and freely applying creative license to define something that I find totally incredible.)

Here are a few things I consider to be miraculous...the fact that my heart survived losing Phil because it really should have stopped beating, the idea that taking all of those little steps forward followed by huge steps back throughout the grieving process actually did move me forward, coming to the realization that love is worth the pain of loss no matter how devastating eventual separation will be, the finding of space for so many more people in my life and in my heart, truly knowing love and recognizing it when I felt a knock on my heart, finding a man who loves this new me in so many of the ways that the old me was loved for just who she was at the time, the fact that neither joy nor grief is mutually exclusive.

These are just a few things I personally consider to be gifts of an inexplicable nature. The fact that I can't tell you how I got here baffles me a bit, but grief has taught me to stop looking for the explanation and just enjoy the moment. Which is what I hope to report to you that I did every minute of September 18Th, and yes, I will post pictures. Thank you all for the outpouring of love and good wishes. I take them with me into this new phase of my life as treasures from the past that will brighten the future.

Photo from Fort Dodge

This week my little girl, Liv, started school....not kindergarten or grade one. Until now, she had been homeschooled.
When Jeff was alive, we had discussed our desires for our children's education and what we thought would be the best pathway for our family to take. Although we both agreed that homeschooling was the choice for us at the time, Jeff felt that the advent of Grade Three would signal an appropriate time for our daughter to enter the public school system. I had balked at the idea....and really I thought that I had years to prepare my argument to sway his thinking.
When he died, I didn't think about it much, but I suppose part of me figured I could have my own way now.
It turns out he was right. Grade Three is the year that Liv begins her public school journey. It's bumpy but she's enjoying it.
And I feel that Jeff left me with instructions for his wishes....and it makes me feel less alone when I drop her off each morning. This is what he wanted for our little girl....and maybe he's watching over her as she trudges up the pathway into the school doors and grinning. He won.

camp widow 2010

it started off

much the same way

it did the year before

(in a bar),

but i have to say

that the 2010 version

was even better

than 2009.

why?

several reasons.

first, i got to

catch up with

the folks i met

last year.


so much had changed

for all of us, and

i got the sense

that even the reason

we were there

had changed.

it's not that we

didn't need the

support as much as we

did the first year,

but we were

better off than

the year before because

of our attendance

in 2009.

we had created

a close knit

support group for ourselves

and this was not only

an opportunity

to see each other

again, but it was

also a chance

for us to give

back and help get

others to the place

we find ourselves in.

and it's not that we've

"gotten over" the

death of our partners

(because that will never happen),

it just that we

made a connection

with folks

like us.

and that's invaluable

when the world

is at it's darkest.

so to that end,

i was thrilled to

see my friends

reaching out

beyond the social group

we created

last year,

and embracing new members

of this awful club.

and when my new

friend emily told me

that the event

was "a life changer"

well, it confirmed that

camp widow is succeeding.

and the credit

goes to everyone in

attendance, but especially

to michele for

actually putting some

actions behind her words.

another reason this

year was so much better?

holy shit!

there were 10 times

the number of men

as last year.

don't be too surprised...

there was 1 man

last year (me).

which (of course) means there

were 10 this year.

and to see another 10x

increase next year,

would be amazing,

but i'll temper my

expectations for now.

let's just call the

2010 event

a small step forward

for widowed men...

meeting folks like

david and tom and mitch and chris

and others

made me positive that

someday camp widow

will be a huge

means of support

for more men

in the future.

but we may have

to change the name

to be more inclusive.

i know what

you're thinking...

"camp widowed people"

just doesn't have

the same ring as

"camp widow."

well, i'm sure

michele can come up

with something better.

Grief, Parenting, and Coping

Parenting is both overwhelmingly rewarding, and unrelentingly challenging. Some days we glow with pride at the accomplishments of our little angels; other days we may wonder how our best laid plans went awry. Sharing parental duties with a wonderful partner definitely helps manage the roller coaster ride we call parenthood…there is someone to discuss options with, another person who loves the kids as much you do to listen to your rant about their current behavior, an additional carpool driver, and someone else to go over the math homework.

But for widowed parents the time we have to raise our children with the person we love is cut tragically short. For widowed people with children the common concerns of parenthood are eclipsed by the shadow of grief. Questions of which diaper to use are replaced by fears of whether our kids will remember mommy or daddy. Some children’s first written words are, “Why did my daddy or mommy have to die?” Nine year olds may apply the extra emotion of loss to the smallest disappointment leading to angry tantrums fueled by missing their other parent. Teenage angst, scary territory under the best of circumstances, is greatly complicated by the tumult of death and loss. Perhaps the heaviest weight for widowed parents to carry is the fact that we often provide the road map for our children that shows them how to grieve. Do we cry? Do we say our loved one's name? Do we remember aloud? Do we continue our regular routines? Do we shut down, speed up, or spin in place?

I am continually amazed at the fact that widowed parents must survive the searing pain of losing a partner, and also assume the role of only parent. Each family’s route to healing is unique, but some common themes may help pave the way. Seek a compassionate family counselor. Join a group that addresses death and grief in age appropriate forums. Find ways to help your children store their memories. Honestly access your financial situation. Accept help when it is offered. Know that you have limits and you have needs. Allow your friends and family to drive carpool, help with homework, and buy groceries; they want to help. Try to arrange time away from the kids to sob and rage without witnesses. Cry in the shower. Know that children grieve in a new way at every developmental stage. Live in the moment and try to let tomorrow take care of itself. And finally, laugh, play, paint, watch a funny movie, blow bubbles~ let the inherent joy of your children be a balm for your family soul.

are you lonesome tonight....

Photo from Desicolours

I'm not dating. I have gone on a few....dates. But it never felt right. But neither does this loneliness.

I don't want to go through the hassle of meeting, dating, getting to know the other person's "issues", introducing this person to family and friends, getting giddy when they come around, having our first argument, finding out that they have an oddly close relationship with their mother...who hates me, and having to dump their mama's boy ass after going through all that.

I want to jump straight to the comfy fart-in-bed stage. The leave-the-door-open-when-you-pee level. I want to not worry that they find my poultry obsession a little alarming or that my kid's habit of climbing into bed with me every night is not overly annoying. I want to be with someone who finds my kids cute even when snot is running down their chin.

But, alas, the only one who can fit this bill is a husband. My husband.

I worry that no one will ever love my kids as much as their daddy did. And that even if some man was willing, I may not let them through 'the gate' as I seem to fear that anyone with any interest in us must either have pedophilic tendencies or a death wish.

I'm scared that no one could ever love me again despite my habit of repeating deliciously interesting words under my breath until they cease have meaning. "colposcopy. colposcopy. colpscopy...." Or that the horrifyingly large amount of matter on my thighs that resembles marbles under blue-white coloured cloth would repulse some poor man. Or that they wouldn't know that laughing when I'm raging and screaming at some perceived injustice, although seemingly counterproductive, is just what I need to see life's bullshit as it is - bullshit.

I want to jump to husband and wife. I want to miss all the ups and downs of possibilities.

I want comfort. I want warmth. I want Jeff.

the same, but not

we

walked here,

in the same place

you now stand,

through a uttar pradeshian summer,

the two of

us,

hand-in-hand until

we could no longer.

still we walked

near one another,

separated by it,

yet kept close

because of it.

we learned about this

place, hearing how it

and a lack of water

drove them

from here.

we both understood

then, why otherwise

rational human beings

would leave behind

years of hard work and

forgo such beauty;

it was the same

reason we let go

of one another.

the wind

blowing in from

the desert,

bringing with it

that heat…

heat that feels

like a

hair dryer blowing in

your face while

you stand in

a sauna.

but today,

we, you and me,

we stand here.

summer is

over, and that heat,

that heat

is gone.

but i can still

feel it,

and it is

something i’ll revel

in until i can

no longer feel.

and you.

you feel her.

i’m sure of it,

because i can

see her in

you.

the smile on

your face,

the way you

hold my hand,

and the way you

let it go…

so walk where

we walked,

stand where

she stood

and together,

we will feel

something.

the perfect father

Lately, Liv and I have been struggling. We have been fighting arguing about everything from whether she should brush her extremely knot-filled hair before departing for the day to whether older sisters are 'allowed' to speak to their younger brothers in a hatred filled voice to whether it is her job to clean up her mess. She claims that my requests for daily self-care (teeth brushing, semi-clean clothes wearing, etc.) are demands upon her body which I have no right whatsoever to impose....and that this is exactly why nature has so much trouble supplying humans with their 'needs' because society has created an unreal ideal of human hygiene (If you are confused, don't worry - I don't totally get the rationale either).
I am holding my breath wondering what Liv is going to find issue with far too often for my liking. I am emotionally exhausted and communication/NVC/positive parenting deficient.

Recently, Liv has started to not just fly off the handle with anger over the injustice of expectations upon her body, the needs of others in the household or my desire to have a calm and communicative homelife....but at the idealized image she holds of her father and my perceived shortcomings.
She regales me with reasons that I am less of a favourable parent to her father. I don't play with her enough. I yell more than he did. I don't love her as much as her daddy did.
The ironic and most painful part of this is that although Jeff was a kind, funny and loving father, he was not always hands-on. He would wrestle with Liv. Or snuggle on the couch watching a movie. He'd occasionally make something with her in the garage. He loved to listen to her read or hear her tales of daily life on the phone weekly while he was fishing.
But I was the one who cuddled her to sleep and got up with her in the middle of the night. I wasn't holed up in the garage drinking beer and watching WWF. I was mixing the homemade playdough and kissing away 'owies'. I knew what size of shoes she wore and how far up she liked her coat zipped.
He was a fabulous daddy. But the image she has of him is just not accurate. And I am being compared to a 'saint'.
One evening of overly expressed dislike of my inadequencies as a parent I (remarkably) calmly told Liv of her father. I explained that he was a fabulous guy and my very best friend whom I loved with all my heart and wished with every part of my being that he would be back with us. BUT that he was a real person. He made mistakes and lost his temper and sometimes stunk like B.O. He didn't like how I loaded the dishwasher and ate pickles straight out of the jar. It doesn't mean he was 'bad' or 'mean' or 'unkind'....just that he was like the rest of us. 'Real'.
With horror on her little angry face, she told me that I was never to talk 'mean' about her daddy ever again. That he was 'perfect'.
And really, he was. He was perfectly him....But I hope that one day, and not TOO far away, she can see that I am perfectly me....and I am trying the best I can to do the job that he and I used to do together.

I do not want to take Liv's love or admiration for her daddy. I don't want her to ever stop thinking that he was wonderful and hilarious. But why does it have to come at the cost of her love and devotion to me?

i didn't think about it

i thought about

it from time to time,

but i wasn’t sure i’d

ever come across

it again.

i had a vague sense

of where it was,

but it’s not like i

i really end up

near this place all

that often.

so the memory could

have remained just that.

i’ve gone much further

to find the places

i’ve wanted

to rediscover, and this

one is so close

that it could have

happened much sooner

so today,

it did.

not meant to be,

it just was.

as it all is

these days.

sitting here,

i thought that

where we were

wasn’t where i thought

any of us would be

just four

years earlier,

but who really can

predict anything?

believe me when

i say

i’m glad that

i can’t.

not gone

there, where they
used to be,
is a thin line,
dug deep into my
skin, one that only
i can see,
a reminder that
they’re still there
even if
they’re not where
they used to be.
that line will not
be there forever,
but the mark
they left on me
will remain until
i breathe no longer.

Dreaming of Art

I dreamt about him. I was coming out of Pallas and Ezra's room and he was standing in the hall. "Hi!" I said, thrilled, as if he had come home early from work.

And we stood there for a moment, smiling at each other.

"Can I touch you?" I asked, for the last time I dreamed about him I had tried to hug him, only to touch cold air before he could tell me it was too late.

This time he nodded.

And when I reached out my hand, his hand was warm and firm, just like it used to be. Our hands together, his large white one, with my small brown one reminded me of those photos of the white worker holding the African child's hand.

I woke before I could place my cheek on his chest. I lay still, breathing slowly attempting to remember that feeling, to push it into my physical memory so next time, when I want to, I can remember it with ease.

My grief was shallow, suffocating fits of hysteria. Now it's thick, mournful moans and longing. The longing is like, is like a cord that is coming from me and reaching, stretching, tugging at me, different force of pull at different times. Sometimes it pulls me over. Along this line is my desire to hear him, to touch him, to see those deep blue eyes looking back at me. The longing is bearable, resonates with a low, almost imperceptible hum. It causes me to feel like something is missing only I can't figure out what exactly it is.

As it tugs, it detaches my skin from my muscles leaving this hollow space. This empty place. Nothing to fill it. It's not his immediate presence that I miss so much anymore, it's his lack of presence throughout the future years that make me wish him back. How is it possible he won't see Langston play volleyball or football, Pallas win an art award or Ezra get kicked out of class for telling the unwanted truth to a teacher's face. I don't understand how he can miss all that is coming.

And in this new emptiness, in this longing, I can see how I can go on.

And that just makes me sad.

the impending father's day

It's actually 3:28 a.m. as I write this. Unpacking from our move and working at the clinic have kept me so busy that I haven't spent any amount of time ruminating about what thought of loss has most taken up my mind this week.
But as I've driven to work, opened boxes of photo albums and placed Jeff's dresser in the corner of the room, the thought of the impending "Father's Day" has popped into my head briefly and painfully.
I have come to fear this day for my kids. I worry that they'll begin to notice other 'normal' families out for Father's Day breakfast. That the flyers in the mail advertising copious amounts of tools for the other kid's dad will highlight their lack of an alive one. That the ties or other seemingly useless items that kids make to mark the day that they celebrate their dad will cast little shadows on my little one's hearts.
On Sunday, you'll find me at work. My kids will be babysat until I return to them. There will be no special brunch, fancy formal wear accessories or tool belts to give to Jeff to mark what a kind, funny or loving daddy he was.
So in the afternoon, the kids and I will practise our own father's day tradition. We'll head to the beach with helium balloons clutched in hand, tiny folded notes tied into the strings and send Jeff the father's day messages we wish we could hand over with a huge and mushy hug.
I hope he'll get them. I hope he will know that we remember what a fabulous daddy he was and will never forget his part in making our lives as special as they were...and are.
Thank you, my Jeffrey, for our little ones. Thank you for your giant love. We love you right back. Happy Father's Day, my love.

working and happy

it is late

and i’m still awake,

a fit of creativity

has settled upon

my brain, and has

translated into

eight fingers and two

thumbs, working to pound

out the

words i’ve struggled

to find.

tonight i spoke to

one of my best

friends in the world,

and she

cried for us.

happy tears,

knowing,

evident in the smile

in my photos,

the words that i

write and the sound

of my voice,

that i am

the happiest i’ve

been in a very long time.

and she knows

you’re to blame,

and for that she cried.

so sleep…

because i will

be awake, writing

about the past,

ready for the future.