Our Princess loves to check the mail.
I don’t blame her. It was my thing once upon a time too.
Yesterday she brought in a stack of mail. A bill, unsolicited advertisements, a catalog, a magazine, and a package.
An unexpected package, I should add, which sent tingles of delight and anticipation surging through us all.
Inside was a treasure.
Well, there were books, so yes, that was a treasure in and of itself, but there was also a letter.
But not just any letter.
This was from a dear soul who knew my Mama and my Daddy. Daddy talked with her and listened and let her into his world, when everything seemed to be falling apart in his fight against Goliath. She was such a comfort to us all in those days. Especially for Mama. I am convinced she is the reason Mama found her place after Daddy died. Our friend invited Mama on an outing, and from that Mama found a place to be, a place to serve, and a place to love and be loved.
For all of the fifteen months she lived after losing her best friend.
And this dear soul was there when Mama took her last breath. She was also there when our cousin, Miss B, took hers. I don’t know what I would have done without her through all of those days. A comfort to be sure.
This letter she took the time to write was no ordinary one.
It was a remembering, an honoring of the lives of the two people I love and miss so much. I laughed and I cried as I read the two handwritten pages front and back.
What a gift.
Grief is an odd duck. I’ve said it before, and this probably won’t be the last time. The thing is I can go a day or a few without tears. The missing them, the holes in my life, doesn’t go away, but I can cope. I can function and I can go on. (Which shocks me to be quite honest, I never thought I’d be able to.) Then a day will come and the thought of something I want to tell Mama about or a question I want to ask Daddy comes to mind, and I’m a weepy mess just as I was in the shower night after night those first few months. The tidal wave washes over me, knocks me down, and I am LOST once again.
And in this, though there are so many others who loved them and miss them, wrong or not, I wonder if I am the only one still struggling like this. It’s been two and three years since their passing on, and time heals, so they say, so maybe I’m the only one, so I don’t bring it up…..because I don’t want to upset anyone or because I figure I’m just crazy. All depends on the day.
This letter was timely and purposefully so. She remembered it was the anniversary of us saying goodbye to Mama. And so she wrote. And she called them. by. name.
I miss hearing their names.
Tonight I am thankful for the grief.
That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
But the thing is, I fear a day will come and I won’t have the tears. The memories might fade such that I don’t weep with the pain of missing them. I never want their passing to be just a thing in my past. I want to remember.
And I give thanks for the others who remember. Who tell me they do, and who share their memories.
That right there.
That’s a gift. I clung to the phone as an older friend shared the story of my Daddy driving home from work as a young man, making the turn onto his road on two wheels. That was it. Nothing else to the story, but my knuckles were white and my heart listened to every detail and etched it into my memory. Because she told me about Bill. From long ago.
And the letter. The paper is a little warped from the tears, but I won’t let them go willingly. On it are the names of those I love. And memories I don’t have, but that were shared with me. About Bill and Barbara. I cling to those.
So if you’re ever wondering what you can do for someone who is missing someone they love, call them up, sit down over a cup of coffee or a glass of sweet tea, and call those folks by name. Share your stories and listen to theirs. Even if it’s been a year. Two. Ten. Talk about the person.
Say their name.
May we all have someone who walks alongside us to remember and share stories with as we traverse this path of grief and loss and this whole journey of life.
Love to all.
I Might Need A Nap 