This past Sunday we had a family dinner at HQ (a.k.a. Mom and Dad’s house) with some of my brothers and sisters. I hadn’t been there in over two weeks, not since my mother’s funeral. It felt strange to drive into the driveway, knowing that neither of my parents would be there. Still I had a hope, a fantasy that I would walk through the back door and Mom would be at the sink, watching the birds, and Dad would walk out of the den with his arms open wide, that big smile on his face, eyes twinkling as he said, “How’s my Meg? Come, give your old father a hug.”

It didn’t happen that way, of course. As I walked up the back steps, I looked in the window of the den out of habit, expecting to see Dad sitting in his chair, reading the paper. He wasn’t there. I opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen, looked around for Mom. She wasn’t there. I glanced from one corner of the kitchen to another. Nothing was out of place. The tea kettle was on the stove ready to sing. The woven place mats were on the table as always. But it was my sister who walked out of the den with her arms open wide, a sad smile on her face as she asked, “How are you doing? Do you want a cup of tea?” and turned the kettle on. And no one was at the sink watching the birds.

I stood there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of the house. A million visions of my childhood and adulthood racing through my mind. I pictured winter mornings at the table, wolfing down a big bowl of oatmeal. Thanksgiving dinner with the table overflowing with food and laughter and love. A big stainless steel pot of grape juice on the stove soon to be turned into the sweetest grape jelly ever. Every stage of making Christmas cookies covered the countertops in my mind and the aroma of their baking filled my heart. Then came the image of my Dad on the day he died, sad and frail as he waited for the ambulance to arrive to take him to the hospital. Maybe he knew he was going to die that day, but none of the rest of us had an inkling that he was so sick. And, finally, the raw memories of sitting at the table, with my Mom slowly dying in the bedroom off the kitchen, brothers and sisters trying to come to grips with the reality that we would soon be losing her as well.

The house is there. The memories are there. But the vibrant life force of Ralph and Lois seems to be gone. There is an emptiness that I could have never imagined even as I pull up to the house. And the grief and loss is overwhelming and all encompassing. I told my Mom I wouldn’t cry forever. I promised her I would be strong. And I am trying. But I think my tears are necessary for me and for her. My Dad’s point of view was that from the moment we are born we start to die. It’s a natural progression, the circle of life. He never said I shouldn’t cry, but when we talked about his dying, he made my promise I would be strong. So I am trying.

From where I stand, crying is being strong. Letting my love for them and the loss in my heart fill my eyes and roll down my cheeks is the strength I learned from them. They each suffered incredible losses in their lives, yet carried on, lived full lives, loved their children, set an example of what love is, gave their all to each other and to us. How long will I cry? Probably until the day I die. But for me, that is how I am strong. That is how I honor them. Until the day I die.