landslide

This time of year can wreck me. I am flooded with the memories of a bright autumn weekend along the shores of Lake Superior when we pledged our forever days together.  I am flooded with images of his face lit by birthday candles, his girls gathered round so eager to give him their gifts.

I light the first fire in the wood stove and think of the sound of his hatchet splitting wood outside our door, and the smell of his cooking making our home cozy and warm. I am swamped with memories and a new grief. Here we are without him again as the hickory nuts begin to fall. The wind blows in these long late fall days to stay and he is not here to make this place home. And his girls are no longer the shiny baby-faced children glowing in his light, they are young woman whom he has not met. The endless ache comes in sharper focus.

And here, in this bigger collective grief, the loss of normalcy that we all endure during this pandemic, I see it is possible to miss him more, this person who was our shelter, who would be sharing all the decisions and responsibilities, who would be here to comfort, to help, to ease the isolation.  

With a nod to Stevie Nicks, sometimes this landslide takes me down.

And yet.

There are moments of solace.  Grief loosens and laughter flows in. We bake his favorite cookies and use the spoons he carved to stir the soup and listen to the music he loved.  They sleep in his long t-shirts and I wrap myself in his wool as I walk beside a new love, still tender and cautious and know that he wants us to be happy.

For those of you out there holding your own grief, I wonder what things bring it home for you each day?  I wonder where you find solace and comfort.  I wonder what you need to feel connected.  If a landslide is taking you down, know that I see you.