Hike the Grief Away
In some ways it looks like I’m all better, no grief pain, all smiles.
Sure, if you want to pick select moments.
Truth of the matter though … it’s a pain that lingers. It crops up in unexpected ways. It blindsides me, even when I expect it.
The night of the super bowl, a mere handful of days after the fresh wound of loss, I found myself in the middle of Bucky’s crying over a chocolate covered strawberry. I don’t cry in public. But these were my Mother’s Day gift from Miss Kid over the years because they were my favorite. I saw her, standing in front of me, that smile of pure joy as she handed me the plastic container. I heard her voice as she chirped Happy Mother’s Day Shadow! I remembered all the times she proudly told any who’d listen that I was her step mother and I was the very best step mother ever. My husband held me as I cried in the middle of Bucky’s. And then he bought me a chocolate covered strawberry.
Two nights ago, I was at Miss Kid’s father’s, helping him go through boxes, clean out some of my stuff, and go through her things. He slid a purple box over to me and I just looked at him. We both knew what was in it. I took a deep breath and braced myself before opening the box to reveal her toys. That deep breath wooshed out in a sob as I remembered her playing with them, spread out on the living room floor. It’s not fair!
But those are just the moments when I’m overwhelmed with it. The pain is always within, always pricking at my heart with it’s sharp barbs.
A couple weeks ago I went out camping with 5 friends. It was beautiful, quiet, full of laughter, and comradery. You’d think so far removed from home it wouldn’t hurt. As I looked out over this amazing vista I couldn’t help but think about how Miss Kid would have loved the rocks below and climbing all over them, peeking in on the tiny creatures that call it home.
I felt the breeze teasing my hair and remembered how it always made her laugh to see the wind playing with my long hair. I saw the kids leaping and crawling over the falls and remembered how much she loved to climb, how fearless she was.
That night, at the campfire, I shed a few quiet tears as I thought of how she’d not be able to sit around a campfire with friends anymore, telling stories, and eating smores.
The next day at the falls I determined that I’d do more of this, more living, more experiencing, because Miss Kid no longer could. I would store up these memories and laughter and send them to her through the ether. I would live where she could not and hopefully she will receive these thought bombs of happiness and beauty to ease her.
Take a hike? Yes, I will.
Sure, if you want to pick select moments.
Truth of the matter though … it’s a pain that lingers. It crops up in unexpected ways. It blindsides me, even when I expect it.
The night of the super bowl, a mere handful of days after the fresh wound of loss, I found myself in the middle of Bucky’s crying over a chocolate covered strawberry. I don’t cry in public. But these were my Mother’s Day gift from Miss Kid over the years because they were my favorite. I saw her, standing in front of me, that smile of pure joy as she handed me the plastic container. I heard her voice as she chirped Happy Mother’s Day Shadow! I remembered all the times she proudly told any who’d listen that I was her step mother and I was the very best step mother ever. My husband held me as I cried in the middle of Bucky’s. And then he bought me a chocolate covered strawberry.
Two nights ago, I was at Miss Kid’s father’s, helping him go through boxes, clean out some of my stuff, and go through her things. He slid a purple box over to me and I just looked at him. We both knew what was in it. I took a deep breath and braced myself before opening the box to reveal her toys. That deep breath wooshed out in a sob as I remembered her playing with them, spread out on the living room floor. It’s not fair!
But those are just the moments when I’m overwhelmed with it. The pain is always within, always pricking at my heart with it’s sharp barbs.
A couple weeks ago I went out camping with 5 friends. It was beautiful, quiet, full of laughter, and comradery. You’d think so far removed from home it wouldn’t hurt. As I looked out over this amazing vista I couldn’t help but think about how Miss Kid would have loved the rocks below and climbing all over them, peeking in on the tiny creatures that call it home.
I felt the breeze teasing my hair and remembered how it always made her laugh to see the wind playing with my long hair. I saw the kids leaping and crawling over the falls and remembered how much she loved to climb, how fearless she was.
That night, at the campfire, I shed a few quiet tears as I thought of how she’d not be able to sit around a campfire with friends anymore, telling stories, and eating smores.
The next day at the falls I determined that I’d do more of this, more living, more experiencing, because Miss Kid no longer could. I would store up these memories and laughter and send them to her through the ether. I would live where she could not and hopefully she will receive these thought bombs of happiness and beauty to ease her.
Take a hike? Yes, I will.