One Year

I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since you died. I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since I’ve heard your voice; saw your name come up on my phone screen. A whole year of silence. I can’t believe how much has happened in this year that you haven’t been here to see. My son is 16 months. He’s walking and understands so much. He does funny things like blows kisses, makes crow noises, and does sun salutations. I try to imagine what it would be like to have you in his life, if you were around, but my imagination fails me because I have nothing to base it on.

Did you know that your father died this year too? That we’ve all been left scarred twice by this year and the cruelty of grief? He died of a broken heart after you went before him. But maybe you know this. Maybe he’s with you?

Can grief re-wire your brain?

The night you died, the light lingered above the lighthouse much longer than usual, trapped in a cloud. I remember watching the sunset hoping it would be spectacular. It wasn’t. Except for this small ray of light refusing to go down.

It was deep summer but the trees looked like winter. Leaves stripped bare as the cancerous gypsy moth caterpillars ate their way through the entire tree canopy. Leaving ghostly silhouettes and hollow sounds. So much pregnant symbolism. Later that night, at 2am, after you had gone, my sister and I watched through the emaciated branches of the trees, a huge shooting star fall from the sky. Your light finally tumbling and gone forever.