Grief is a journey unlike any other. The grief of a mother for her child is, I’m told (not winter-sun-1547273_1920that I doubt it), the most profound there is: I have been, we have been, utterly shattered by Mark’s death. You never really do “recover”; instead, you eventually emerge from the dark, soft webbing of your grief cocoon and find the world has changed, too, because you see it with different eyes. The wings you unfold are stronger, maybe a little darker, but also luminous with hope and anticipation. You know that one day…one day, all will be well.

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What I Remember, What I Love


In no particular order.
• That you wore nothing but Sperry’s boat shoes for the last many years (which made me worry about your arches) and they smelled HORRENDOUS.
• How you talked to the cat. I still talk to the cat like that. Who taught who?
• How much you LOVED Legos, and Bionicles in particular. I realized last fall, just before you died, how hard it was to put them together! And little 6, 7, 8 year old you never asked for help.
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