It’s been quite the gloomy January. Hardly any sunshine. Rain, wind, warmish temperatures. Damp. In-between weather. Not really winter, not yet spring. And it’s only mid-January.

Nothing like the January’s of my childhood. Oh, boy, here she goes again, you might think. But seriously, I miss those cold days. Snow days. Ice-on-the-pond days. Bundling up from head-to-toe-so-you-could-spend-hours-outside days. Shoveling out our neighbors, building snowmen, creating snow forts, engaging in snowball fights, flying down the hills on a saucer or a sled. Lying down in the snow to make snow angels. The scent of the cold air stinging your nostrils. The sensation of cheeks blushing to a deep red the longer you stayed outside. Ahhh…made you feel you were alive.

This weekend, we finally got some snow. Nothing to write home about, but still. I could spend hours watching the snow sift through the air, twirling in the wind. Big fat flakes like eiderdown, falling all around the birds at the feeder. Birds on the ground scratching to get to the seed I left there for them before it got covered by a coating of the white stuff. Slate-gray Juncos, chick-a-dees, dashing red cardinals, goldfinches with their drab winter feathers protecting them from hungry predators.

And so, I watched. The wind grabbing the flakes, keeping them swirling in a mad dance, before calming down for a moment to catch its breath, only to begin the dance again. As the snow covered the white pines, it became a winter wonderland for a brief time.

It snowed pretty much all day, but never seemed to accumulate more than a sugar coating on the grass and the trees. I’m a little disappointed. As I’ve gotten older, my heart still longs for a real snowstorm. I love to walk out in the snow. The pristine, quietude pulls me into a space of peace and beauty. I still find the stark contrast of the snow against the green pine needles and dark brown bark on the trees to be magical.

And, yet, as I’ve gotten older, I no long wish it to snow from November to March. One or two good snowstorms satisfies the longing of the little girl in me. I need the reminder of the winter to prepare me for the spring. For, just as you need the darkness to appreciate the light, coming out of the winter into the spring can be best appreciated if there is a winter to leave behind.

The holidays are finally over. My heart is heavy with the weight of bittersweet memories, changes in traditions, grief and loss. For some reason, the loss of my parents and the traditions I grew up with surrounding the holidays, hit me hard this year.

Usually, my siblings and I and our families get together to celebrate Christmas. We used to gather at the folks’ house, but since their passing, and the subsequent sale of our homestead, the tradition has been to gather at one of my brothers’ houses. There, we would eat and talk and laugh and share memories of Christmases past, knowing the fact that we were together as a family would help ease the loss of our parents. Knowing that sharing our childhood memories and traditions helped us get through the day.

Those of us who live farther away, took joy in the journey home, our hearts filled with the anticipation of spending time together. Walking through the front door of my brother’s house brought a sigh of relief and a feeling of happiness that we were still able to carry on the tradition of family. There were homemade cookies and pastries and food to share. We would toast a bit of Jameson in honor of our parents and, with a tear in our eyes and love in our hearts, all of us felt their presence right there with us.

This year was a little different. My brother and his wife became grandparents and wanted to spend Christmas with their daughter and her husband and their beautiful grandbaby. We all understood, happy for them in the thrill of a baby girl to add to the family.

Yet, as happy as we were for them, it meant another change that I was not really prepared for. What would we do on Christmas? My daughter is in Charlotte and my son goes to his in-laws for the day. This meant my husband and I would be alone. Oh, I know some people would love to have a quiet Christmas, but for me Christmas is a big, boisterous gathering, with stories to tell and jokes and laughter with those who know me best. Seeing my siblings’ faces and giving and getting hugs charges my soul and fills me up with what I need the most to get through in this life. This year, I marked the hours, just waiting for the day to be over. I really couldn’t wait for the day to end.

So, instead we had a post-holiday gathering at my brother’s house. I walked through the door with the same relief and happiness as if it was Christmas. We laughed and ate the cookies and goodies all of us brought. There were stories, old and new. We shared a Jameson toast to Mom and Dad. The baby was there, happy and content, which was wonderful, too.

I’m not really sure why I felt such loss this year, but I sure am glad the holiday season is over. Hopefully next year we can find a way to have a party during the Christmas season, with all of us together. I’m not ready to give this up. As long as we are all alive and well.

It’s been five years since we lost our parents. April 7^th for Dad, and today, August 10^th for Mom. It’s so crazy how since they’ve passed, time makes no sense to me. Sometimes, I could swear that they are still here on Planet Earth and I’ll go to pick up the phone to call them before realizing there won’t be an answer on the other end. Sometimes, I realize they are gone but it seems like only yesterday. And sometimes, it feels like they’ve been gone forever.

When they passed, the sense of safety that I had taken for granted and had always carried deep in my heart was gone. Just gone. All I felt for a long time was a deep loneliness and longing for the two people who knew me better than anyone else on earth.

When they first passed I couldn’t imagine ever making it through five days, never mind five years without them. I was stuck in a haze of grief for several years, a changed person. Unable to focus. Trying to grasp at the things that used to keep me afloat. Unable to feel anything but the overwhelming grief that gripped my heart. I dropped out of life. Spent hours and hours sitting on the couch, watching reruns of old television shows. Wrapped in a blanket of pain and a sorrow so deep that I didn’t care if I ever came out of it.

I tried reading book after book on the subject of grief, searching for anything that would help me just get through it and find closure so I could get back to normal. I talked with my therapist. I talked with friends who’d lost a parent. I talked with my siblings. None of whom could give me any definite answers. What I found was that it wasn’t an easy subject to talk about and no one had any answers. I was going to have to come to grips with this enormous loss on my own, in my own time, in my own way.

I didn’t want to have to get over it on my own. I needed someone to tell me exactly how I was supposed to do this thing. Deal with this pain. Get up everyday and move on. When there were no easy answers to be found, I felt myself drawn towards the one thing I knew would kill the pain. I didn’t care that I had been clean for decades. I needed relief from what I was feeling. It was a scarey, scarey place to find myself.

By the grace of God, the Universe and perhaps the love of my parents from the other side, I decided not to give in; and at some point, I began to come out of it. My innate spiritual nature began to speak to me of the soul’s journey with reassurances that they were not gone. I began to open up and feel their presence all around me. Through dreams, a quote out of nowhere, a song on the radio, their voices guiding me back to what I believe gave me some hope.

I sit here today with the quiet knowledge that they are with me. All I have to do is look at a sunrise or sunset. Sing. Laugh. Listen to the birds. Watch a quiet snowfall. Pick up a shell on the beach that was left there just for me. Find a soft feather at my feet as I walk through the woods. Dad always said to me, “Pay attention, Margaret. Pay attention.” And so I have begun to pay attention again; and by doing so I feel their love and protection and spirit surround me. I feel safe again. My belief system has always been that there is a thin veil between this dimension and the “other side” and if you open your soul you can feel the presence of those who have gone before.

Don’t get me wrong. I still long for an afternoon at HQ, sipping tea with my Mom and getting my butt kicked at rummy. I still need time with my Dad to speak of the meaning of life. I still miss the family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I have come to an acceptance of their passing. Knowing they are part of my soul’s journey. Knowing they are waiting for me in another life somewhere. Knowing I shall recognize their soul when the time comes. And for now, five years later, I am OK with that.

I learned how to lie as a first grader in Catholic School. In Catholic School, you ask? Yes, in ^1st grade in Catholic School. It was while I was preparing to make my first communion. It was such a big deal to the nuns and my parents. The second sacrament in my journey as a good Catholic girl, (the first being Baptism into the Catholic Church.) It was a ceremony full of pomp and circumstances. A very serious ceremony. One that would make me a more integral part of the Church.

Part of earning the privilege of making my first communion meant I had to go to confession first, tell all my sins to the priest who would somehow absolve me of the terrible stain the sins had painted onto my pure white soul. But what exactly is a sin when you are 7 years old?

I really didn’t know what it meant to be a sinner. We had been taught in class that there were mortal sins and venial sins. The mortal sins were murder, theft, greed, lust, coveting your neighbor’s goods or wife, among others. Venial sins were less critical sins and included things like lying or cheating on your schoolwork. Laughing at someone’s misfortune, name calling, taking the Lord’s name in vain etc. The little girl that I was couldn’t even imagine having sinned. But I knew if I wanted to become part of the Church, I had to go through this process as every other good Catholic had. And at the time, I wanted that. But how would I deal with this sinning thing?

The Church was right across the street from the school; and on the appointed day, the nuns had us put away our papers, go to the coat closet – in a very orderly fashion – and line up. All the while we were getting ready, the nuns reminded us of what an important day this would be in our life as we became a real member of Jesus’ flock. We better be on our best behavior. Walk quietly down the sidewalk and wait for the signal to cross the street to the Church. There would be no talking. No running. And no monkey business. Those who did not behave would have to go to the Mother Superior’s office for punishment when we came back.

Filled with dread at the thought of going to Mother Superior’s office, we did manage to remain quiet and on our best behavior as we left the school and crossed the street. We filed into the Church and sat in our appointed seats as directed by the nuns. It was kind of dark and very, very quiet. Looking around, I was once again in awe of the beauty of the stained-glass windows but saddened by the depictions of the signs of the cross – Jesus’ journey to his death. At 7 years old, I thought to myself, why would someone willingly carry a cross to a hill, all the while being ridiculed and hurt by those in the crowd, let himself be nailed to it, then let that cross be hauled into an upright position, so you could just hang there and die an agonizing death? It made no sense to me.

As I sat there waiting, a hint of frankincense hit my nostrils and I thought there must have been a funeral that day. I always associate that smell with a funeral Mass, ever since my Uncle had died and I had to go to the Mass. A little pungent, a little sweet, very distinct and very much part of my Church experience. It was almost a comfort in its familiarity.

We all waited, trying to sit still in the pews; watching one after another after another make their way to the Confessional box, trying to see the expression on their face as they left. What was their punishment? What sins had they committed? Could they be forgiven? If not, where would their souls end up?

My stomach started to hurt. I wondered if the other kids were thinking the same thing. I started to squirm, unable to sit still while visions of disappointing the nuns or my parents filled my mind. I was only 7 for God’s sake. What could I have possibly done that would be considered a sin?

And then it was my turn. I got up, my knees shaking, and walked up to the confessional, pulled back the curtain and stepped in. Inside it was darker than the main Church. There was a hard, wooden bench for me to sit on, so I sat down with a thud and waited. Palms sweating, a tug of fear in my heart, I tried to think about all the ways I might have sinned in my 7 years on earth. Almost immediately, the priest, who was sitting on the other side of a thin wall with a small, square window about halfway up, drew back a trapdoor which exposed a screen on the window. He didn’t say anything. And I didn’t say anything. My mouth became dry and cottony as the truth hit me.

 I knew I hadn’t killed anyone. I’d never stolen anything. I wasn’t sure about what greed, or lust, or coveting meant, so I was pretty sure I hadn’t done any of those things. I wasn’t good at lying then so I didn’t even try. I was very smart, so I didn’t need to cheat on anyone else’s papers. My mom wouldn’t let us call other people names, and to laugh at someone’s misfortune was just plain mean. As for swearing, well, my Mom wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. I wasn’t even sure what a swear was.

As I sat there the truth became clear. I knew that if I wanted to make my first confession and walk down the center aisle at Church with all my classmates, dressed in a pretty, white dress with matching gloves and a crinkly veil, making my parents so happy, taking my first holy host, I was going to have to lie. To a priest. For my first confession. Somehow that didn’t make any sense, but well, that’s what I had to do.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.,” I said. “This is my first confession.”

Good morning Ma Mere:

Another year has passed. Four now. I still long to see your beautiful smile. I still crave your Sunday dinner of roast beef and gravy. And I so wish I could just sit and talk to you about life and love and you. My mind is filled with the memories that have shaped my life. Memories of your exquisite voice singing me to sleep. Memories of watching you turn the kitchen into a bakery in order to make your famous Christmas cookies. Memories of picnics and cookouts and weeks spent at Scraggy Neck with our cousins. Most of the time, I find those memories sustain me. But there are times….times when I just need your calm, confident voice to soothe my pain, to help heal my broken heart, to give me sound advice (not that I always took it). Times when I need a hug from you. A hug from my loving, lovely Mama. I always felt safe and loved and, though at times I took a path you didn’t always agree with, you were always there to guide me back to wherever I needed to be.

We have a new golden boy puppy. His name is Finneus O’Malley Flanagan. You would LOVE him! He would LOVE you. He’s been a bit of a handful, but I try to channel the calmness of your spirit, even though I never have had your ability to stay calm in the midst of chaos. I’m trying. Looking back, it amazes me how you kept order and boundaries alive in the day to day craziness of raising 8 children. You are a saint. And I miss you.

Do you remember the puzzle I got you one year of a goldfinch sitting on a purple coneflower? Well, I looked out my window the other day, and there, sitting on my purple coneflowers, was a brilliant, stunning goldfinch. Munching away on the seeds. I know it was a sign from you. Thank you for that. Oh, and Dad sent me a tiny, feather from a young cardinal. All gray with tips of pale salmon. I found it in Finn’s play yard. These signs make me know we’ll see each other again. Til then, my sweet, sweet mama, So Long.

It has certainly been a different kind of holiday this year. I mean, there’s Covid – that despicable virus that has turned our entire world upside down. There’s the crazy and incomparable Presidential election – still being fought over -causing a divisiveness that hurts my soul. There’s a sense of disconnect, and fear, and mistrust that pervades every aspect of life, or so it seems. Oh, and did I mention Covid?

I woke up feeling pretty good today. It was a relief not to have to plan a big dinner. There was no pressure to speak of. I spent the day, puttering around, and pretending it would be OK to have this holiday be one of quietude and serenity. And that felt right for most of the day. But as I sit here after dinner, contemplating the day, I find a well of sadness has filled my heart.

As I write, a small, rounded juice glass, which I took from my parents’ house when we sold it, holds a shot of Jameson, “soothing my tummy, dontcha know,” as my father used to say. I want to share my thoughts, if just for posterity. Or, just to have something to look back on if ever I want to remember Thanksgiving 2020.

This year, so different from any other Thanksgiving in my entire life, has left me in turmoil. This is the 4^th Thanksgiving since my parents passed. And until this year, I had been able to get through this holiday relatively unscathed. Doug and Kyle and I started a new tradition of going down to Charlotte to have Thanksgiving with Mikaela. The previous three years showed us that making a new tradition can be a really good thing. Going away helped me deal with my parents being gone and gave us time to see Mikaela and spend time in our own little family unit.

But this year, because of Covid, we didn’t go down South. Kyle and his girlfriend decided to spend the day with her family. Mikaela was in Charlotte, and Doug and I stayed home. So, without my really knowing why, I became anxious and angry and upset, as the day wore on. I finally figured out it was because there was no way to get away from the grief this year. And when I finally acknowledged that empty feeling, that which made my heart stop and my throat close with unshed tears when the memories of love and family filled my heart, I was so filled with grief that I couldn’t see the blessings anymore. I just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and cry.

Instead, I made dinner. For two. Turkey, you might ask? All the fixings? Well, actually, no. I made chicken parm and by the time it was done, I didn’t have the emotional gumption to even make angel hair pasta to go with it. So, our Thanksgiving dinner was chicken parm and scali bread. Seriously. No vegetables. No mashed potatoes. No gravy. Just chicken parm. And scali bread.

We sat at the table, and took it all in. Neither of us had much to say, except to agree it was the strangest feeling ever. No kids. No extended family. Just the two of us. It was so freaking quiet. It was like we didn’t know how to express the weirdness of it all. I started to feel like I had failed someone.  No matter how many times I told myself it made no sense to make a big dinner for just me and Doug there was a niggling little voice scolding me. But why, I kept asking myself.

And then it hit me. I had tried to avoid the grief all day as it came creeping in, thinking I should just embrace the blessings and not give in to the sadness. But then I remembered something I read recently. Grief is the measure of how much one has loved. And I realized, that to feel this grief, and hold it close, was another way to honor my parents and all the love they gave to me and I gave to them. It’s OK to be sad. It’s OK to miss them. It’s OK not to make a turkey dinner if I don’t feel like it. Thanksgiving is more than just a day of food and football. It’s a feeling. And if you are lucky, it’s a feeling that stays with you even when the ones who showed you what Thanksgiving means are gone. And, if you are lucky, you’ll find a way to keep that feeling deep in your heart to bring out and look at in the light when you need it the most.

So, as I sit here, sipping the last drop of Jameson, I’ve begun to feel blessed again. I have found the light again. And I know my grief is also a blessing. Because Grief = Love. Happy Thanksgiving Mom and Dad. Slainte.

Good morning Ma Mere:

I can’t believe it’s been two years since you left this earth to be with Dad on the other side. Some days it feels like only yesterday. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Today, I miss you and can see and feel the last hours of your life slip away as if it was just happening. Today, I am sad and filled with a longing to just be able to give you another hug. To touch your beautiful face and tell you how much I love you and how lucky I was to have you as my mama. But I know you know that and are with me and always will be in my heart and mind. And I want you to know I am no longer feeling totally stuck in my grief.

A few weeks ago, I was having a really hard time. I got so angry. I realized I was tired of being sad and grief-stricken and unable to get out of my own way. I screamed at the world, saying “I’m done with this nonsense! I don’t want to be feeling this way anymore. I JUST WANT MY MOM AND DAD TO COME BACK!!!”

After I said that, I started to feel a little better. I am not sure why, because I know you won’t be coming back in this lifetime. But somehow, I felt better. I started writing songs again. I had a clear vision in my mind of what I can do to help myself and maybe help others, with a writing project I am working on. My faith in a time/space continuum was restored and I know that one day, I shall see you again. You and Dad. We are connected through the Universe and through the love we shared, and that energy will never die. I had lost that belief for a while, but I am feeling it again. I feel it when I see a cardinal or a hummingbird at my feeders. I feel it in the melodies and harmonies that spill from my heart, roll down my cheeks, and flow from my fingers to the keys of the piano and through the vibrations of my vocal cords when I sing. This gift, a direct connection with you Ma Mere, will keep me going. Keep you with me. And always bring you close when I feel lost and alone and lonely.

Yes, it’s been two years. We miss you. And always will. But I can finally keep my promise to you dear mother when you said, “Now, Margaret, you cannot cry forever. Promise me you won’t cry forever.” I promise, Ma Mere. I love you.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Hey Mom and Dad:

I missed your phone call last week. On my birthday. Singing Happy Birthday to me. Lucky for me I can hear your voices, clear as a bell, in my heart. And, Rosemary was kind enough to send me a video that Erin had taken of you singing Happy Birthday to her husband a few years ago, so I got to see you and hear you live….so to speak.

It’s a January/February thaw kind of day today. Yesterday it was close to 60 degrees and today is supposed to be the same. My daffodils broke through the soil a few weeks ago. They always show up early. A reminder that, like them, I can get through whatever cold and darkness tries to stop me in my tracks. I miss talking to you about that. I mean, I do talk to you, but I miss hearing you respond. I missed sharing the Super Bowl with you again this year. Patriots won by the way. But I am sure you know that.

I have had a few dreams of you. A most vivid one a few weeks back sent me deep into my grief for a few days. In this dream, Mom, Cathleen and I were sitting in your bedroom. You were rocking in your rocking chair and we were each holding one of your hands. I can still feel your hand in mine. Dad, you were on the front porch in your red plaid shirt and blue Dickie work pants, with your arms open wide waiting for me, and you hugged me a bear hug that I can still feel. Thank you both for such a gift.

My birds have come back. The other day a gorgeous purple finch was at the thistle feeder and I knew you had sent it to me, Mom. A bright red cardinal decided to sit in the trough of the feeder for a half hour the other day, right at dusk, and I knew, Dad, he was sent from you. His eminence, the cardinal, and a tiny brown house sparrow visit me and still my pain when I remember how you shared your love of birds with me. The cardinals hiding in the lilac bushes in the back yard, stunning color against a falling snow. The male goldfinches shedding their brilliant yellow feathers for the dull green of winter. A nuthatch walking backwards down the old maple tree, laughing. You and mom always pointed them out to me. But my favorite little one was the house sparrow that spent the winter nights in the corner of the column on the front porch, feathers puffed up for warmth, head buried deep in his little chest. Every night, after supper, Dad, you called us to see this gift from above, snuggled on our front porch.
Right now, there are six goldfinches on my thistle feeder and about a dozen feeding from seeds on the ground. Watching these delicate creatures sparks the joy in my heart that has been hidden since you’ve been gone. Today, I can feel that spark and feel your presence all around me. Each day, I can find a moment like this and know you are with me. Some days, it is just that, a moment. Some days it’s a few hours. But I feel as if I am coming out of the darkness of the grief of your passing. I am writing music again. I am able to feel that you are with me. Since you passed, I have struggled to find you, but these days, I can feel you are with me.

So, time to sign off and go make some music. I miss your faces. I miss your laughter. I miss your singing, Mom. I miss your hugs, Dad. But I know you are here.

Talk soon.

I love you to the ends of the Universe.

Meg

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Hey Mom and Dad:

I missed your phone call last week. On my birthday. Singing Happy Birthday to me. Lucky for me I can hear your voices, clear as a bell, in my heart. And, Rosemary was kind enough to send me a video that Erin had taken of you singing Happy Birthday to her husband a few years ago, so I got to see you and hear you live….so to speak.

It’s a January/February thaw kind of day today. Yesterday it was close to 60 degrees and today is supposed to be the same. My daffodils broke through the soil a few weeks ago. They always show up early. A reminder that, like them, I can get through whatever cold and darkness tries to stop me in my tracks. I miss talking to you about that. I mean, I do talk to you, but I miss hearing you respond. I missed sharing the Super Bowl with you again this year. Patriots won by the way. But I am sure you know that.

I have had a few dreams of you. A most vivid one a few weeks back sent me deep into my grief for a few days. In this dream, Mom, Cathleen and I were sitting in your bedroom. You were rocking in your rocking chair and we were each holding one of your hands. I can still feel your hand in mine. Dad, you were on the front porch in your red plaid shirt and blue Dickie work pants, with your arms open wide waiting for me, and you hugged me a bear hug that I can still feel. Thank you both for such a gift.

My birds have come back. The other day a gorgeous purple finch was at the thistle feeder and I knew you had sent it to me, Mom. A bright red cardinal decided to sit in the trough of the feeder for a half hour the other day, right at dusk, and I knew, Dad, he was sent from you. His eminence, the cardinal, and a tiny brown house sparrow visit me and still my pain when I remember how you shared your love of birds with me. The cardinals hiding in the lilac bushes in the back yard, stunning color against a falling snow. The male goldfinches shedding their brilliant yellow feathers for the dull green of winter. A nuthatch walking backwards down the old maple tree, laughing. You and mom always pointed them out to me. But my favorite little one was the house sparrow that spent the winter nights in the corner of the column on the front porch, feathers puffed up for warmth, head buried deep in his little chest. Every night, after supper, Dad, you called us to see this gift from above, snuggled on our front porch.
Right now, there are six goldfinches on my thistle feeder and about a dozen feeding from seeds on the ground. Watching these delicate creatures sparks the joy in my heart that has been hidden since you’ve been gone. Today, I can feel that spark and feel your presence all around me. Each day, I can find a moment like this and know you are with me. Some days, it is just that, a moment. Some days it’s a few hours. But I feel as if I am coming out of the darkness of the grief of your passing. I am writing music again. I am able to feel that you are with me. Since you passed, I have struggled to find you, but these days, I can feel you are with me.

So, time to sign off and go make some music. I miss your faces. I miss your laughter. I miss your singing, Mom. I miss your hugs, Dad. But I know you are here.

Talk soon.

I love you to the ends of the Universe.

Meg

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