Hi Mom and Dad:

It’s a gorgeous Tuesday today. Finally, a clear day without any rain. It’s cool, like October should be, and the leaves on the trees are still green. My garden beds have gone to a riotous ruin of mostly dead and dying flowers, but some are still going strong. The sun-patients and the non-stop begonias are fully flowering with exquisite buds of yellow, pink, and red. Some of the dahlia’s are still blooming. The rose bush by the front steps still has buds waiting to burst. And the late season pansies are answering the brisk breezes with a nod and shake of their purple and gold faces, daring the weather to get cold enough to stop their hardy bloom.

I took Tucker for a walk this morning. I haven’t done that in too long of a time. Once I get out into the crisp air, my heart starts pumping and my mind expands, welcoming the various sounds and scents of my woods. It eases my grief for a short time.

It’s so hard for me, most days, to actually get out and do the things I love to do since you’ve been gone. A hospice bereavement counselor told me, over the phone and without meeting me, that I am suffering from PTSD as a result of complicated grief. She told me a bereavement group probably would not work for me. This, after I had gone to a crazy grief group last week where I was told by a woman who actually laughed as she said, “this too shall pass”; and the leader walked me out and told me “I think I love you…” So, I have decided to work through this grief on my own. I don’t have a plan yet, but I can hear your voices urging me to pick myself up and get on with my life. The problem has been that I miss you more than I could have ever imagined, which is why I could never imagine my life without you. You were physically part of my every day. The holes left by your passing are very difficult to fill. I reach out to call you at least five times a day. I think to myself, “I’ve got to ask dad…” only to realize that I can never “ask dad” anything again and get an answer. I reach for the phone thinking, “I’ll call mom…” only you are not on the other end. The phone doesn’t even exist anymore. When you were first gone, I used to call just to hear your voice on the answering machine. But it’s been turned off and the number disconnected.

We’ve been cleaning out the house. A little at a time. Going through your things is a very, very difficult task. The memories of the life lived in that house are overwhelming. The love that filled that house is stilled with your passing yet kept alive in the hearts, blood, DNA and memories me and my siblings share. An emptiness that was inconceivable to me before now has replaced the joy and happiness of my childhood. It’s just a house people have said to me. But in every room, the ghosts of my life wait to capture my attention, every time I step through the door. It will never be just a house to me. One day, it will belong to someone else, or maybe even torn down. And maybe then I can find a way to let it go.

I love you and miss you both so much. I hope to reach through the grief soon.

Always,

Meg