Closed Doors
I’m sitting alone in my kitchen this morning. Well, technically not alone; our cats and my fish Alfredo are here with me. I am the only human here, though. It’s been this way for a couple of days now. Eric took our youngest back to school in South Dakota on Wednesday. As they traveled, I tracked their progress (Thanks to Apple’s “find my phone”!). I’ve come home each evening and cleaned up a little bit more of the mess left behind. I don’t totally mind it; it gives me something to do besides eat tater tots and chicken strips for supper again.
For all that I’ve cleaned up in our common spaces, there’s one space I haven’t been able to enter.
Our youngest’s bedroom door remains shut. Partly because I know the mess that awaits my eyes. But, mostly because I’m not quite ready to accept that both of my children are gone.
I have to admit that I’m disappointed with myself. I should be over the “summer sadness” by now! It’s been two years since we moved to Kentucky, three summers of watching my children drive off. I’m not a rookie at these feelings of abandonment. (I know. I’m being dramatic. Let me have my moment, ok?) My children are doing exactly what they should be doing! They are successful humans who are out there conquering the world. Our eldest has started his first teaching job, which makes me an official Crazy Band Director’s Mom. Our youngest is still in school, creating crazy good artwork and musical compositions. They are both doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing, where they are supposed to be doing it.
So, why am I sitting alone in my kitchen feeling sad? Why can’t I just be happy, like others tell me I should be? Those of you have been here, know that it’s complicated.
When someone we love leaves us, whether through death, moving, taking a new job, or simply by growing up, we can’t help but think about how things used to be. We remember the adventures and quiet times we had together. We hear their voice and footsteps echoing through the house. When we do something we know our person would enjoy, we feel the pang of loneliness. We miss our friend with whom we laughed with, played games with, went on walks with, sat across the table from. Our memories with them fill our spaces. One cannot simply shut off those memories and pack them away.
There is a sticker on my laptop which says “Grief is Just Love.” It doesn’t give a time frame for this grief, or love for that matter. Because no matter how long ago our loss was, or who or what we have lost, there is a grief inside us that we carry each day. Because we have loved.
We know that there are days when the quietness hits a little harder. There are days when pictures make us laugh, and other days those pictures make us cry. We are grateful for the phone call or text from our person that comes at just the right time. We share a meme or reel with our person because it’s a way to stay connected. We do what we can to make sure our person is still a part of our lives. Because we have loved.
That love doesn’t end simply because we are no longer together. We cannot expect our grief to *Poof* be done and over. That’s not how love works. And that’s definitely not how grief works. The reality is that they work together, continuing to weave our person into our lives. Grief is Just Love continuing to find that expression.
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I’m going into the bedroom today. Mainly because I have plants in there that need watered. I’ll clean up a little, although I’ve already been warned to not do too much. Still, I’m going in. And, as I reach to open the door, I will say a prayer of thanks for my children and the memories we have.
Peace,
Denise
