I wanted to talk to my mom today. Sometimes I think I can feel her presence but today, when I needed her to be HERE so much, she was entirely absent. People newly experiencing a loss sometimes ask, “Does it get better?”  All of you “grief veterans” know that, in truth, you never recover: instead, you emerge slowly from grief as from a chrysalis, not — probably — a butterfly, but a new creature nonetheless.

A few years ago, after my father died, I had a conversation with him. He took my hand and asked me why my sister and I had sold his house. He didn’t know that he’d died and was very sorrowful. I was deeply asleep and awoke still feeling his hand in mine. Since our relationship was complex and not particularly warm, the dream visit was confusing. Why me instead of my sister, with whom he was much closer? She and I talk jokingly about his presence but the truth is that the dream visit was really the only time I’ve felt like he was close.

My children have no living grandparents. Ken and I have become the historians, telling the children stories about our early lives and those of our parents. I remember the stories my grandparents told me and want to pass that experience and history on. When I hear him talking about the past, I’m anxious: will I have to tell Ken’s stories for him? How could I do them justice?

The weather was so beautiful today. I like to mess around in the dirt (I call it gardening but the plants know better) and spent part of the afternoon quietly weeding while my older children worked and Ian went for a short walk with his dad. The possibility of a new sunburn makes Ken very anxious these days so he was wearing a shirt with long sleeves and a hat with a huge brim to shade his face and neck.  He went to sleep shortly after their walk and when I went up to check on him a little while ago, was still soundly sleeping.  The thought pops into my head, though I try not to give it space: will there be another Mother’s Day together?