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Grief and loss are ubiquitous. Unfortunately.

You only have to turn on the news to see it. Or hear your child cry. Or listen to a friend when she's had a fearfully bad day. Or, turn inward and see what you've been thinking of lately.

Grief and loss don't always have to do with death, or divorce. Grief comes with: losing a job, moving, watching someone move away, fighting with a loved one, missing a child who's at summer camp. Grief spills over into lots of things. And grief doesn't always have to be GRIEF. It can just be grief. With little letters.

Little lettered grief could be opening up a brand new bag of cinnamon raisin bread to make a much anticipated piece of toast and finding mold. Or gleefully making a birthday cake for your son and discovering that you don't have any eggs because the last person to use any put an empty carton back in the fridge. Or maybe you spilled your coffee on the way to work. See? Little lettered grief.

I would like to hear from you. I would like to open up this blog for guest posts on the subjects of grief and loss. Big GRIEF, or little lettered grief. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, Big GRIEF, little grief, what begins with grief? It can be on any topic within that thematic framework. It can be in any format: essay, short story, or article. Fiction or non. Please email it to me (identifying what format it is in) at valeriewillman@gmail.com and I'll post it.

Let's build some community and start healing.

Audio Teaser

Grief Shadows Excerpt
read by JoJo Jensen.

The link takes you to a website page where several audio teasers are posted. Mine is the last one. Under the  heading: Memoir.

Let me know what you think.

Grief Changes Friendships

*Some of the names have been changed. 

When Rob died, my best friend, Jennifer – whom I called at least every day and saw at least weekly – was there for me in all ways. She was on bed rest for her pregnancy but still showed up at the house with her husband the morning of Rob’s death. The parlor and the basement with the red countertops were full of family and friends that already missed him and wanted to hold our hands and hug us.

When Jennifer showed up I said, “What are you doing here?!,” knowing she should be in bed. I burst into tears. The compassion of her being there. The wretched pain in her husband's eyes. He was one of Rob’s greatest and oldest friends, and we'd attended his sister’s memorial service only months before with some of these very same people.

I leaned on most of them, and a few leaned back on me and we mourned together. It wasn’t quite so lonely that way. Jennifer was one of those that cried with me. We held onto one another and told stories of Rob, and then stared blankly at each other when we just couldn’t believe that he wasn’t coming back to us.

And then a few months later, I felt a definite alteration in our closeness. It happened in her living room one winter afternoon. I was telling her about Sandy.

Sandy had lost her infant daughter to death at only twelve days old. As a result, Sandy had shifted her worldview enough that she started helping others with their own grief using hypnosis – among other things. She called herself a soul coach and I was seeing her as my grief counselor.

I wanted to explore the reasons why this tragedy had happened and what I was supposed to do about it and how I was going to make myself feel better. That was it in a nutshell. I felt so unbelievably pained, like all my bones had razor blade spurs on them and each time I took a breath or moved in any way, I would bleed anew with excruciating devastation.

I just wanted it to stop. I would do anything for the pain to go away – even something as drastic as having a past life regression done. Even something as drastic as seeing a spirit medium.

I was late getting to Sandy’s that first time. I’d remembered the time wrong. She offered me tea and I used the bathroom with the brightly colored fish shower curtain. My session was held in her sun room. Pastel cushions on white wicker, a small fountain splashing and serene music washed over me. I settled into a chair across from her and put my feet up. The tea mug was in my hands but still too hot to drink.

She closed her eyes and rested her hands, palms up, in her lap. Her legs were uncrossed.

In the silence I waited for messages from Rob. She began by describing him and who he was with, and the first thing he said through Sandy was:

            
            “Don’t be fearful. I don’t look like that anymore. Don’t remember me like that.”

I took this to be a message for his mother and sister. They were the only ones to see his body in the coffin – it was closed for the funeral service and wake. But I accepted this message for myself, too. I had my own slideshow of possibilities scrolling through. Those possibilities were much worse than what my mother-in-law and sister-in-law saw in the coffin that day, I’m sure.

For the next two hours I listened to Rob’s messages and asked a few clarifying questions. It was a strange three-way conversation that I never forgot.

“Make your decisions out of love for the children.”

“When no one is around, I am still there with you. I’ll be with you until the end.”

“Don’t worry about finances. There are some (plenty) coming your way – you just don’t see it yet.”

I only came with one question for Rob.

“Did you choose to die?”

He answered with Sandy’s help:

            
            “Not like you think. Soften the word death, more like a doorway. My awareness had 


an agreement.”

I wiped the tears away and nodded my head. Of course. It would be that way. The way that he said.

“Rob’s telling me that you are not to blame yourself for him dying,” Sandy said. “It was part of the contract. ’We’d decided it before we were even born,’ he’s saying.”

“But if I believe he died for a reason and that that reason was for my spiritual growth and maturity, wouldn’t that ultimately make me the cause of his death?” Tears dripped off my chin.

“No,” Sandy reassured. “Remember it doesn’t have to do with you like that. You made him feel good!”

She paused again and closed her eyes.

“He says he has instructions for you,” Sandy said.

“Ok.” I sat up straighter and wondered if I should write this down.

“One was coming to see me.” She paused, listening, then laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“He’s saying: She’s stubborn, isn’t she?”

I  smiled through my tears. It did take me a long time to mount the courage to make this appointment.

“He says the stubborn part was for ‘ … letting go. Not letting me go. In fact, I’m not asking that – just letting go of your belief system.”

Then she said for him: “Once you allow the fullness of my presence into your heart, your spirit will find peace – you’ll be at peace. 

“Remember the promise we made three years ago. Ignore the ‘until death do us part’ part. We do not part with death. You didn’t marry me for my physical body, you married my spirit. The part that defined me. Who I was. That part will never die or leave,” Rob said.

“What are you doing there, Rob?” I asked.

“Getting my feet wet. I’m still getting used to not having a body. I can get really small and then really big. It’s cool,” Rob said.

“He’s kissing your belly.” Sandy smiled. “He says the baby will look like you.”

“Can he hear my thoughts?” I asked Sandy. She answered for him.

“I don’t invade your thoughts but if you direct them to me I’ll “hear” them.” Rob said. “Do you hear me?”

“No. I wish I did,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You will,” Sandy promised.

“Did you do what you needed to in this life? Or at least some of it?” I asked.

“I met you. And the kids.”

I swallowed and looked down at my lap. I shook my head. Was that enough? Were we enough? How could I be enough?

           
             After a few sessions with Sandy, I started feeling more hopeful and became 


interested in my surroundings again – venturing out a bit. It was on one of those ‘ventures 


out’ that found me in Jennifer’s living room that winter afternoon. Our little ones played 


and I told Jennifer about the peace I was getting from seeing Sandy.

           She wiped her hands on a towel at the kitchen sink and walked to her mantle.  She lit 

three candles.

“One for Baby, one for Beth and one for Bob,” she explained. She meant the twin inside of her she knew she’d already lost; Beth was her husband's sister that had died only months before, and Bob – that was their name for Rob.

“Have you ever thought about contacting Rob or Beth?” I asked. Her eyes were round as she shook her head.

“It’s helped me so much – I can understand the why a bit more and that’s made all the difference for me.” I waited for acknowledgment or a request for more information. This was so fascinating to me that I assumed she would feel the same way.

I offered to pay for a session so she or her husband could go to a Sandy session in the hopes that they could find some comfort as I did.

She said, “No, thanks,” and that was pretty much it. Our friendship started slipping then.

But let me explain: There was no explosion of wrath, I didn’t take her response personally, or as a rejection from her. And I didn’t end the relationship because she wouldn’t accept my gift. I simply started putting my energy toward another friend I had at the time.

Here’s the thing -- grieving a big loss turns things around for you. You try on new values (“No, I don’t mind if you only brush your hair every other day …”, said to my son at eight years old) and belief structures. In my case, reincarnation and duality of the soul.

These concepts brought me peace at a time I sorely needed it – obviously you’ll have to find your own system to ease your pain; mine may not fit you.

I tried to be real careful about who I told my new beliefs to so I didn’t create any discomfort. And truthfully, because it was less than mainstream, I was worried that I would be rejected or ostrocized. So I only shared it with one other friend of mine. Her name was  Andrea.

I would take Aubrey to Andrea’s house and our children would play together while I went to counseling at my soul coach’s place. After I was done, I’d come back and share my experiences with Andrea. She was fascinated, and a very sympathetic listener.

I’d known Andrea for just under two years. We’d met in our childbirth preparation class and our kids were born on the same day, in the same hospital. And she cared for Aubrey while I worked part-time.

So, I could say that Andrea was a willing listener when I most needed one, and Jennifer didn’t want to hear about it because it made her uncomfortable. But mostly what I think what was happening was the speed at which I was moving through my grief was different from her speed.
No blame. No right or wrong. Just was.
And that changed our friendship.

"I'm sorry for your loss"

I never know how to respond when people say this to me.

Even when it's slightly modified, like in Emma Thompson's adaptation of Sense and Sensibility when Mrs. Jenning's son-in-law says to Elinor when Marianne was sick: "I'm more sorry than words can say."

When people say that to me, my first and only thought is: Well, me too. I'm sorry he died, too. I'm devastated. Adrift.

People never know what to say to grieving ones, but grieving ones don't either.

I went shopping with my mom during my first visit to Oregon after Rob died. We were at a consignment shop to pick up some maternity clothes for me, because I'd already started showing.

I ran into a girl I'd gone to high school with, also pregnant, also with her mom. She chatted happily about her family and her plans and even mentioned her husband. I plastered a fake smile on, chuckled and said, "Me, too." I left as soon as I could and hoped I never ran into her again.

I couldn't tell her about Rob. It would've terrified her -- people think widowhood is somehow contagious. Or probably it's just the sudden realization that everyone's mortal and the same thing could happen to them. People don't want a reminder of that having lunch with them. Besides, she wouldn't have known what to say, and I hate putting people in that position -- where their eyes widen, and fear and sadness and grief pool in them and their mouth opens and closes like a caught fish flapping on the shore.

I didn't want to do that to her. It would've ruined her day. So I laughed instead, and waved good-bye.

Stages of Grief -- Checkoroony

No one asked any of us to identify the body like they do in the movies. No one asked if Rob had any distinguishing marks on his body, like the blue triangle and eye of Ra on his left shoulder blade. Wouldn’t they automatically ask that of everyone? What about the long scar down his belly from the surgery he had when he was four hours old? Wouldn’t they want to make sure they had the right guy before putting his death notice in the paper? So maybe he didn’t really die. Maybe it was someone else.

That was denial, part two.

Most people I’ve talked to believed Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross’ five stages of grief were linear, one happened after another – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – though this is not the way she herself said it would work.

If those crappy stages weren’t enough, there are more. More that she didn’t talk about. Like, shock and guilt.

Despite the non-linear approach Kuebler-Ross intended, I still saw the stages as a checklist of sorts. It didn’t matter in what order they happened for me, I was just ready to start crossing them off my list. The faster I could do that, the faster I’d feel better. And that was something I desperately wanted to be in control of. I was in control of nothing else, so this would be my thing. This I would rule over. And I was ready to get down to work.

So, denial. Ok, that happened briefly for me when the troopers came to the house. My first words were: Are you kidding? But that only lasted a few moments really.

This is great. I cross the first one off my list.

Shock, I think, lasted about three or four months. It took awhile to come up for air and to settle into some semblance of a routine. Check. (But remember, this wasn’t one of the original five stages. This one was thrown in for free.)

I never did bargaining. I don’t have much to say about that. I do know what it is though, and I watched out for it, but it didn’t make any recognizable appearance. For all intents and purposes – check.

Sadness. (Or it’s alter-ego, depression.) Sadness permeates everything for years. Sorry to be so crass and blatant, but there it is. It isn’t the sadness of sobbing and heartsickness. That took me around a year or so to pass through. But good days bled through them all. So in the midst of the pain, joy would show up, too.

But the sadness that lasts for years is more elegant. It shadows your thoughts and activities like the dappled sunshine that survives through a canopy of trees above a summer deck. Soft, nostalgic. Tender, even.

The anger was tricky and I’ll tell you why in a little bit. First, I gave myself a freebie. Before I even started crossing them off, I checked off anger. I wouldn’t do that. I’d never been raised with anger displayed in obvious ways. Good Christian girls didn’t get angry. They worked things out calmly. Or in my case, just avoided all confrontation.

 Growing up, my parents never displayed anger. Sure, there were disappointments and disagreements – maybe even disgust sometimes – but never raised voices. Never slamming doors (except among outraged siblings once in awhile), and never ever ever any physical anger, hitting or throwing plates against the walls or at each other.

I wasn’t mad at Rob for dying. I was sad he died. I was lonely because he died. I didn’t blame him for dying. He fell asleep. It was an accident. 

Irritatingly enough, denial resurfaced for a small time.

But then Fernanda and Lena went to see the body at the funeral home before the wake. So that ended the denial bit. Again. The shitty part was: I did the work again, but I didn’t get to check it off the list again.

And then I wondered about the way he died. The troopers said he fell asleep while driving. But that sounded so unlike him. He’d pull over to the side of the road to sleep, even with the threat of a commanding officer at formation bearing down on him. So why wouldn’t he have done that on that night? Maybe he didn’t fall asleep, maybe he had an aneurism, I speculated. But the autopsy didn’t show one.

Guilt is another bonus grief stage. Most of my guilt stemmed from not making him stay home and sleep. He could’ve gotten up after a few hours of rest and made it to formation by six that morning. And I asked him to stay, but he said, “No.” And that was that.

I knew I really couldn’t make him do anything. He was an adult who made up his own mind.  I left it there; no more dwelling.

And acceptance. Well that was dumb. Of course I accepted his death. He was gone, wasn’t he? It was almost an insult to my intelligence. Fucking check.

So, I’m done right? Checkoroony.

 Yeah. Right.

Remember that anger I was telling you about? Well, four years later after I was “done” grieving it showed up. Surprise!

I was angry at Rob for dying. I was angry at him for working a 24 hour shift and not having any sleep. I was angry at his National Guard unit for proposing the 24 hour work shift. I was angry that I wasn’t going to have any more of his children. I was angry that we never got to go to France and Germany together. I was angry that he wouldn’t be there for the kids to do daddy things with. And I was angry that he was gone and I might never have the same intense love that he showered on me from anyone else.

Whew.

The most important thing to remember after that, for me, was that it was ok to feel this anger. It was normal and right and safe, and I wasn’t a bad person for feeling it.

Double whew.

Somewhere in those four years I was at a certification training for bereavement facilitation led by Alan Wolfelt, PhD. He spoke several times during that week and I learned something that has given me peace ever since. And now I give it to you.

Grief is cyclical. You can check off whatever stages you want, but you’ll most likely revisit them. And that’s normal. You aren’t delayed, or dwelling on the death. This is supposed to happen. Not forever mind you. And it’s not eternally on your mind, or anything. Maybe six months – or four years -- will go by and you’ll feel this overwhelming anger or sadness and wonder what’s wrong with you. Nothing. Grief is cyclical. It’s not a tidy inked line on the paper, it’s a big ball of yarn that’s been tangled up by the new puppy.

Something else I learned from Dr. Wolfelt helped me feel much less crazy in those first few years. He described something called “grief bursts.” Boy, was I relieved when I knew what these were. I’d had one and thought I was delusional.

I was driving to the mountains with my roommate, Susan, for a day of snowshoeing. We were listening to an India Arie CD in my rig and the song “Beautiful” came on. In the middle of it I burst into tears. I had no idea why. It was actually fairly terrifying. I had no trigger: we hadn’t heard the song together before he died, Susan and I hadn’t been talking about him, it wasn’t a random anniversary of ours or his. Nothing to warn me. Just an overwhelming sense of him, and my sadness that he wasn’t there.

Susan and I dissected the possible causes for the outburst for a long time. The most plausible to me was that I was wearing Rob’s flannel coat and there must have been some residual smell of him in the fibers and the heater warmed it up enough to smell them. His smell being enough to trigger the tears.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. There doesn’t need to be a reason. In fact that’s pretty much the definition of a grief burst. You randomly burst out with emotion related to your grief for no apparent reason. It’s just there suddenly and then fades just as quickly. Done.

But it certainly creeped me out when I experienced it. Not to mention I was again discouraged that I wasn’t yet “over” this irritating grief. So, to learn that grief bursts were normal was a huge relief and had solidified for me that the stages of grief weren’t tasks that need to be checked off.

Grief lingers, but not in an irritating-younger-sibling-tagging-along way, or a flu that lingers on and on and on. It’s a sweet grief. Like the favorite special sweater of his you saved and bring out every year for Samhain*.

*Sambain is celebrated as the Celtic New Year. It’s more commonly referred to as Halloween, or the eve of the Day of the Dead. Our family celebrates this holiday with an altar decorated with things our ancestors, friends or close family members who’ve died once owned, or liked. A camera, pencil sharpener, dog tags, a watch, or an empty carton of cigarettes. Camels. (And we sometimes wear clothes that once belonged to them, as well.)

*Sambain is celebrated as the Celtic New Year. It’s more commonly referred to as Halloween, or the eve of the Day of the Dead. Our family celebrates this holiday with an altar decorated with things our ancestors, friends or close family members who’ve died once owned, or liked. A camera, pencil sharpener, dog tags, a watch, or an empty carton of cigarettes. Camels. (And we sometimes wear clothes that once belonged to them, as well.)

Yoga, Grief and Cliches

Grief is like Bikram Yoga, I think. In class today, I was reminded that my body sometimes betrays me and doesn’t fold into a pose I could do the day before. Or my balance will be all wonky and I can’t stand on one leg in one pose, but in another I can.

            When I first attended these yoga classes I would rage inside when this happened. I could get my forehead to my knee in this pose two days ago, why not now? Last week the instructor told me I had the best balancing stick pose in the class, and today I can’t even get into the pose without falling forward on to my hands. This new source of irritation would rankle until the whole class was ruined for me and my dour mood would follow me home and extend to the children, or a headache would blossom and I’d suffer the rest of the day.

Now I know that the trick is to recognize that this is just where my body is that day. I can meet myself where I am and accept that this is who and where I am today. And that’s ok. It’s more than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.

            Grief, for me, was like this as well. I’d get past taking off my wedding ring. I’d give away his last pack of cigarettes. I’d welcome him in my dreams and channel his words in my journal. And I’d feel quite pleased that I was handling it all so well. I was applauded for it, even. And then a grief burst would smack me along side the head and humble me to my boots. I’d hear my infant son laugh for the first time and reach for the phone to call Rob.

            It was uber-confusing. I’d rant and cry and write in my journal and try to swallow the scorched and scrapey feeling in my throat. Would this wretchedness never pass? Just when I thought I was “over” the worst, a resplendent low would stun me with awe. Like when, on Valentine’s Day night, I was soberly closing my eyes to the unromantic and helpless day I just spent without Rob, when Aubrey crept into my room hours past when I thought she’d been asleep.

            “What’s wrong, Aubrey?” I rolled over to face her and brushed back her dark bangs.

            “Where’s Daddy?”

            Quite frankly, this stumped me a little. This wasn’t a new question, but it was one I thought we’d dealt with.

            “He’s in heaven, Sweetie,” I said. Aubrey looked down at her hands picking at the blanket on my bed.

            “When’s he coming home?” she asked.

            My heart stopped. I’m sorry for the cliché, but there it is. Right up in my throat, too. Another cliché. I think I can honestly say, that apart from the soldier handing me the American flag at my husband’s military funeral, that this was the worst moment I’d experienced since Rob died.

            “Oh honey,” I said, pulling her into my bed and arms. “He’s not coming home.”

            Blam. My body just crumpled at the base of a brick wall.

            After I’d gotten her back to bed, I cried myself to sleep. On Valentine’s Day – when every other lover was having dinner with their sweethearts, eating chocolate and pressing flowers into each other’s hands.

            Eighteen months had passed since Rob had died. I had been dating for about five or six of the last ones and had really felt like I was past the grieving stage. I thought I was cured. Life went on and so did I, right?

I was looking for a new partner and parenting my two exquisite children – but occasionally days or nights like these would set me back. I’d feel like I had to start grieving all over from the beginning and the exhaustion that that thought lowered on me would send me to bed for as long as my infant and toddler would let me.

And then things would get better again.

I’m sorry to say that it took me about four years to finally realize that my grief would come and go and that that was ok. Like the yoga, I needed to just show up and accept where my heart and emotions were that day. No fighting it; no raging that I’d just been fine yesterday.

I accept where I am and what comes up for me, no matter what I experience on any given day. I’ve stopped calling them “bad” days. They are just “grieving” days. And that’s ok.

It’s better than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.

Grave Intentions

I wish the grass here was lush and silky like some grass is. I want to swim my arms and legs through it like you do in your sheets when you first wake up on Sunday mornings. But the grass is brown and pokey underneath my belly where my tee-shirt rides up and on the underside of my arms.

I’m lying on top of Rob’s grave anyway.

But I don’t swim in it. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the wind rustle the trees and hear birds. I hear car engines, too, from the nearby roads, but I pretend they are wind, too.

I was hoping there wouldn’t be anybody around so that I could talk openly to Rob, though I only have to turn my mind to him and we can converse the other way.  The wind snares madly at the trees in consent.

But there are people here, planting flowers four graves down.

I wonder what his body looks like now? After ten years would it be just skeleton yet? Or a mummy? Or only slightly decayed? When does the flesh rot off bone completely – underground, with no oxygen?

The wind is madly hopping from tree to tree, ruffling the pages of my journal and my hair. Smiling, I wonder what Rob is trying say. And why – if he is trying to say something – he’s not communicating in my mind – as was our custom years ago.

You won’t listen to me now, he teases. You’re writing and not turning your mind to me.

Do you have something of import to say?

No. Only that I’m always here for you. Forever. Through good times and bad.

The wind slows to caress my cheeks, then ruffles again in laughter.

And I think of Paul, who promises those things, too.

Being in Massachusetts is weird now. We drove to a park in Rhode Island yesterday and I felt sick with Fernanda driving. Not carsick, but sick with worry and fear. She drives too close to cars and doesn’t lift her foot from the gas pedal when the car in front of us brakes. And I realized today that I was afraid we’d crash. Even when I drive here, my hands are clasped around the wheel and my shoulders are tense and the teeth in my mouth ache from clenching.

I remembered for years that I didn’t want anyone but me driving Aubrey anywhere. Her first field trip on a bus was traumatic for me.

I like lying on my back on Rob’s grave. It feels oddly comforting, as if I’m snuggling with him. On the way here to the cemetery I saw a young man walking down the road and his facial features reminded me of Rob.

I remember seeing other men through the years that have looked like Rob, but only one that made me look more than once.

It was in a group of people outside waiting for my step-daughter to get out of school. He was turned away from me with a young girl in pink at his side. His hands on his hips, the way his shorts fell and his hair cut all paralyzed me. I stared at his back for two minutes but never had the courage to call attention to myself and seek out his face.

The first time I brought Aubrey to Rob’s grave after we’d moved away to Oregon, she picked up a rock and handed it to me. I had picked one up, too. But she hadn’t seen me do it.

I kept them both for a few years, until they disappeared one time while going through his box of things. (More like Rubbermaid tote – but you know what I mean. Box sounds more elegant.) The stones’ import was forgotten, I suppose, because I don’t have them now.

(GRIEF TIP #1: Always label everything even though you know there’s no way you could forget the significance of one of your treasures.)

How can I keep coming here to Massachusetts? I feel useless and dis-oriented.

To remember little tidbits I forget back home, I travel here as pilgrimage to never forget.

To forge a bond between the cousins in case it’s needed later on when the children are older and they want a friend that remembers them from back when. Or if anything ever happened to me and Paul, the kids would come here and Zoe and Nora would become their sisters. Insurance against them being strangers if that were ever to transpire. These are all my reasons.

Is that cold? Heartless?

I feel floaty and restless.

I don’t know how to tell our story anymore. Has it been too long ago? I want to cry here, at his grave, like a true widow. But so much of what I think widows are, come from books and movies. Odd sentiment, beings that I am a widow and lived such a horror. And the truth is, I have felt like crying here – even twice on the way to the gravesite – but I stopped them, the tears, to save them for the cemetery. Isn’t that stupid?

The ground is hard, but I don’t want to get up from Rob yet – like he’s sleeping next to me. I wonder if he’d like me now. Maybe. Some of me has changed (I think even Fernanda notices my growing confidence) but my parts of color are more pronounced, and that may be likable to him. Or not. He was pretty opinionated and jealous.

I imagine texting Paul.

                                                                        At the grave.

                                                                        Wanna say anything to Rob?

But I already know the answer.

                                                                        Thank you.

As strange as that may seem to others, I understand this perfectly.

I’m sorry you died – but because you did – thank you. Thank you for my wife. Thank you for helping her become the woman she is now. I never would’ve had her in my life except for you – so thank you.

And now I tear up. But I don’t know why. Because of the beauty in Paul’s soul? Because I love Paul and I thank Rob, too? Or cry because of Rob’s death -- and that it feels creepy to thank him for dying?

The wind whips up again and I take deep breaths … I allow the love of the universe to fill me up. A mantra. It works and I feel calmer.

I’ve collected a little yellow stone from beneath me that reminds me of the sidewalk chalk Joey was playing with two days ago.

(I wonder what Rob’s casket looks like now?)

It’s odd. When I get up to leave, I find I can’t. Not yet, for some reason. I wait to see if I can know.

I like sitting here. It’s the first time in ten years I’ve allowed myself the time to just sit and write or rest while here. Usually it’s just a quick duty call of sorts. Something I do before leaving Massachusetts.

I’ve always wanted a place to visit in Oregon. I planted a pear tree (that’s what Rob told me Pereira – our last name – meant) in Oregon at my first house, but moved soon after. It died under the first renters’ care. I planted another one just this spring – many years later – still with that wish to have an Oregon monument of sorts to visit. The dog ate the damn tree.

I was beginning to think I wasn’t meant to have a place to grieve, that I must always carry my conversations with me instead of bringing them to his gravesite (or proxy site.) But then weeks later little sprouts of leaves have poked out of this seemingly dead, and definitely violated, stick in the ground. There are no branches, just leaves sticking out of a teeny dwarf variety trunk. The leaves start all the way at the ground. So funny and awkward looking – but determined and proud.

The wind calls again and I wonder if Rob helped those leaves to grow – to remind me not to give up hope. That remembering him and loving him still, after all this time, is not wrong. And that loving Paul is not wrong and that, perhaps, Rob is saying thank you, too. To Paul. For loving me and bringing me back to life – and love.

Thank you