Memories, Past and Present, Moments in Time.

Dear Aaron,

I keep seeing snapshots, memories, in my mind and heart. 

Kneeling by your grave on Memorial Day, watching the butterflies flutter in the wind and trying to explain through tears to kind people admiring them. 

Finding two more pinwheels and a flag that someone placed for you. 

Hearing a bird tweet Tuesday morning as I drove away from your site to go to work.

Hanging the butterfly feeder outside the office window hoping for visitors.

Watching two hummingbirds swoop and fly around each other, pausing to take sips from their feeder.

The wind in my hair, the sun on my face.

Yanking out grass from the garden bed I should have weeded weeks and weeks ago. And planting pansies and lavender at the corner because they remind me of you. 

Seeing new grass poke up over your resting place.

Snuggling Sterling, hugging Elend, laughing at Barrett and Linnaea cuddling on the hammock.

Finding one of your potted flowers drooping almost in half, suffering from heat and lack of water.

And then the relief of seeing it tall and strong again a few hours later after a big drink.

Buying tamales with Michael at Costco and remembering all the many, many, many times I took them to Primary's before there was a Ronald McDonald room where I could find food. 

Eating those same tamales with Dad and Andrew and Matthew and Kensey ('cause Michael was with friends) and recalling eating them next to you in the PICU or on the floor.

Scattering rose petals from the roses on your grave, and watching the wind scatter them across the lawn.

Listening to Aunt Maurie's music.

Crying, weeping.

The ache of missing you still permeates my soul, but He makes it bearable, possible to keep moving on. 

I picture you in your bassinet, and then the cradle. Your wide open eyes in the wee hours of the morning. Your cheeky grin as you "helped" with your g-tube cares. Your laughter as your brothers spun you in the wheelchair. Your giggles as someone, anyone, would start in with tickle hands, before they even touched you. The way you snuggled into Daddy's shoulder, or listened intently as he read Magic Treehouse, A to Z Mysteries, and Harry Potter to you. Getting you ready for bed, or for school in the morning. 

I remember our many, many ambulance rides. The hundreds of times I held your hand and stroked your head and whispered to you as nurses struggled to find a good vein. The times I crawled in bed with you, both here at home and sometimes in the hospital and we snuggled. I remember helping transfer you, bagging you because I was more comfortable doing it than the floor nurses, and I needed to be doing something.  Holding you for the very first time when you were four days old. And the last time 13 years, six months and six days later.  Dressing you, kissing you, closing the casket, seeing the gentle mound over the resting place Daddy and I chose...

Missing you through it all. 

Aching.

Yet so grateful for you.

Seeing the mountains with snow on top, the green grass and trees.

Knowing that God knows all of it. 

A week ago I was driving to work and the road rose up ahead of me. There were trees on each side framing my view, and in front, where the road crested, were the mountains at the south end of the valley. The sun was rising and the snow on the east facing slopes was brilliant while the western sides were still starkly shadowed. The sky was a soft blue with faint wisps of white clouds. 

And I felt His whisper, "I know, I feel it, I love Aaron and I love you. You can do this. I am with you."

Two weeks from today is your birthday... 

Remembering the years all this time

Moving through the pages of life

You have been a joy to me

Blooming in the sun and the rain

Holding you through laughter and pain

As you dance I delight

I have loved you all this time

Sandi Patty

Memorial Day Weekend

Dear Aaron,

It's Memorial Day weekend, which means I don't work tomorrow.

Or at least I don't go to work tomorrow. I'm hoping to finally get some yard work done I've been putting off for about two months. Ya know, I do a pretty good job growing weeds, and grass inside the flower beds... Oh well.

There's also a ceremony at the cemetery tomorrow morning. I used to go before you were born but I don't think I've made it for the past 14 years. We've got a lot of veterans in the family, although none are buried here. When we lived in San Diego, the scouts placed flags at the gravesites in the military cemetery. A touching sight as silently dozens of youth moved through the area and flags almost seemed to materialize out of nowhere in the morning sun. 

Yesterday we spent all day delivering flowers to various cemeteries in Salt Lake county and then north to Logan where much of Daddy's family is, and where you'll go when either Daddy or I come to join you. 

But for now, you're here, close by, where I come see you every day. 

We put flowers at your site, yellow for joy, red for your favorite color, and white for innocence and purity. And of course pansies. And lots and lots of butterflies... 

When we went by, your pinwheels were spinning in the wind. Were you there? Were you with us? 

And then at home, a hummingbird was at the feeder. It kept zipping in and out. It shows up each evening, right about the same time we used to do all your meds and treatments.

Are you trying to tell me "hi?" 

This morning I found myself waiting for Michael to come down before I got in the shower so he could listen for....   I don't know what. I was thinking I needed him to listen for you, but you're not here. It still sometimes catches me off guard. And at night, the silence still rings in my ears. Never before have I considered the sound that the absence of sound makes, but it echos... 

My child, how precious you are, what a teacher. I am a much better person that I was before you came. It still hurts; I suspect it always will. 

I know this weekend is to remember our veterans, and they are worth remembering. But you were also a warrior who battled to help others live. I wasn't your only student; so were the doctors and therapists and other staff, friends, family, neighbors near and far. Your influence goes on. 

“Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.”

- JRR Tolkien

Graduation

Hey Aaron,

Michael graduated Wednesday.

And I guess in a way, so did I. 

I mean, we've had 27 years in the public school system. That's 114 child years! And now it's over.  

A few years ago I wrote about "lasts" including the empty nest that would someday come. Even with all my writing, my philosophising, my anticipatory grief, I never did understand what that would look like. 

I mean, I still am having trouble wrapping my mind around it. 

As I sit now, Daddy is on the computer next to me and Andrew and Michael are on couches across the room. Sophie is snuggled next to me and Simba is snoring on his bed. And it's quiet, so quiet!

No more Saturday morning emails (okay, I won't miss those). No more concerts, sports events, homework projects, early morning seminary or late night practices. None of those. No more school busses or first day of school pictures.

This was Michael's 12th graduation ceremony, 13th if we count yours; and the first one that's been for him. I was looking through pictures for his slideshow and was struck again at how the two of you grew up together. And then the last one of him holding you in the early morning hours five months ago, after you passed. The anguish on his face, the love, the breaking of his heart, and the peace on your face. It's not a picture for sharing with the general public. It's too precious, too sacred. The love he has for you is immense. 

So were you there? Did you shout and cheer for him? I mean, he was the only one not already in school when you came on the scene, and you actually started preschool the same year he started 1st grade. You were together, and in many ways, will always be together forever. He is part of you, and you are part of him. 

You know, as I look through your pictures at your smile, the videos of you dancing, somehow my heart clenches at the idea that we don't have that anymore. I want just one more, and then one more, and one more after that... I guess even if I did get those "one mores" they still wouldn't be enough. It could never be enough.

You used to wear Lone Peak shirts; and we'd say you were a knight for life. I think you were. Our only child not to actually formally graduate as a Lone Peak Knight, you were noble in your own right, and you are our knight in shining armor.  You just graduated much sooner than I anticipated. 

Love you so much, kiddo.

Keep watching over us. We need you still.

Love, 
Mama

"Being a brother is even better than being a superhero."

- Marc Brown

Missing You, Still, Always...

Hey Superman,

It's been a few days. Frankly, somewhat rough days.

Gramma is still in the hospital and both she and Grampa also have Covid. Sigh.... Fortunately, they're both improving and here's hoping that it's just a glitch. We still don't know what's going on with Gramma but she is getting stronger. Are you part of this? Are you hanging out in the hospital yet again? I mean, you did love your "vacation home."

And they loved you, too.

Tomorrow is graduation, Aaron. 

Michael is graduating and we will be done with public education. It seems so weird! 

I mean, I guess it's time? Except it's not. I expected to be registering you for high school, for seminary, and although you'd still be in the same wonderful school, you would be moving forward.  And I'd still get emails and do parent teacher conference, and dance festivals and first and last day of school pictures, and, and, and...

And I guess it's not happening. 

You're not going to school here. Do you go to school there? Do you have recess? Run? Play? Jump, yell and laugh?

The quiet almost cuts like a knife still. 

Time moves on. 

150 days, five months on Thursday. That seems so long, and yet so short. I see your pictures and I'm gutted again, but I also smile. I'm learning that I can feel the grief and still be okay (mostly). I put together Michael's slide show and you show up quite a few times. You two grew up together. He was my sidekick for that time after Andrew started school and then when you came along, you joined and we became a threesome. 

Now you're gone, and he's going, and it's hard. 

Tomorrow is all about Michael. It's his day. But tonight I am mourning you, and your relationship with Michael. I think I've said before that it's probably good you went before he left. You would have been lost without him, kinda like I'm lost without you. 

Miss you so much, little man. 

Love you even more,
Mama

"Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

- Kahlil Gibran

My Guardian Angel

Dear Aaron,

Summer is coming. School is almost out. And the windows are open.

Curtains drift back and forth in the breeze and wind chimes sing gently outside the window. 

It's quiet, peaceful as I wait for Michael to come home. A balm for my soul.

This week hurts. Mother's Day was Sunday but you're gone. Kingston grew his wings. Gramma is really sick and we're still looking for answers. Please be by Gramma's side, but don't take her with you yet. I still need her. Today I wondered if you and Nana and Papa were all watching over her, parents and grandson comforting her. 

Tonight when I went to see you, there was a fresh grave dug just to the east of you, only a couple spots away. I looked into the hole and while we always talk about "six feet down", I was caught off guard. I've never looked into an empty, waiting grave site. And those six feet, the thought of you being so far down... Well, I was gutted all over again. 

Somehow I've sobbed more (even wailed) than I think I have for a very long time. It's ripping at me again. 

But tonight I can think of you and smile, even if the smile is a little sad. 

It's been 21 weeks Aaron. 21 weeks since I last saw you awake, almost to the minute. 

And in one hour and 53 minutes it will be 21 weeks since your last heartbeat. 

I love you, my son, my own guardian angel. I hear you in the chimes, feel your soft spirit in the breeze, and somehow it brings comfort to my aching soul. 

"We shall find peace. We shall hear angels,

we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds."

- Anton Chekhov

Trying to Choose Happy

Dear Aaron,

Were you there today? Was Grandma Kim? Were you dancing together with the classes?

Today your class, your school danced, and they remembered you.

Your teacher asked if they could put your name on their sleeves, and if they could dedicate their song to you. I did not expect what I saw when I arrived.  

Your classmates described you and the words were on the pillars. 

Two years ago your class danced to "Still Standing," and when you were there with your sign that said, "I stand for good days" I cried. 

Actually, I think I teared up each year, but this year, I sobbed. 

Oh, my beautiful boy, you are such an amazing teacher. You have touched so many hearts and souls. 

Your class danced to "Happy" and my son, you epitomized happy. And smart, and friendly, and sweet, supportive, kind and funny,  The program stated: "Remember to find joy and happiness in everything and always look for a reason to smile! This song is for Aaron. We love you!" The back of their shirts said, "Choose Happy."

And at the end, they spelled out, "We 🩷 Aaron!" 

I sat with friends. They held me. Oh my heart... 

Your teacher wrote a beautiful tribute to you in the yearbook:  

Aaron was a joy to be around no matter what. His smile and laugh would light up our classroom as he cracked jokes, gave compliments, and teased us on occasion. He loved science and reading and was such a smart kid. 

Aaron had a thirst for learning that is unparalleled. Even during his hard times, he always wanted to be growing and progressing. Aaron's family had a theme of "better days"; Aaron embodied that phrase. He was always pushing himself for better days, even when he wasn't feeling his best.

Aaron was a big part of our school, and touched the lives of everyone he interacted with. We miss him at our school every day. He taught us all how to love unconditionally and to find joy in the small things. We love you, Aaron! 

You should be finishing 8th grade, starting high school next year. You would be registering for Seminary and have an updated IEP.  Oh, Aaron, today is hard, so hard. I miss you, I'm worried about other family members. I'm finding myself going over medical reports again to help someone else, looking for clues, searching for information. 

I'm so glad for everything I learned because of you, and from you! What a blessing you are in my life, still, even now. 

But tonight I knelt at your grave, running my fingers through the grass because I couldn't touch your hair. And I wept.  

I'm trying to make you proud. I'm trying to be strong. I'm trying to carry on. 

I saw a poem today that resonated within me:

Grief
Someone asked me how I survived it and I said, I haven't yet. 
I walked your path with you for so long, and I'm still trying to find my way back to mine.
This part is unpaved, unchartered, compasses don't work in here. I am still in the woods, but sunlight is leaking through the leaves, it's not just dark all the time anymore.
I have not survived it, no, but I am everyday surviving it.

- Kristina Mahr 

I'm trying to survive. I'm trying to choose happy. 

 

Another Angel

Oh Aaron...

Were you there last night when Kingston came to play? Did you and the rest of our children welcome him with a party? 

Do you all pause and put your arms around his family, and the rest of us, knowing that when we lose our own it cuts through the soul like a knife but it's only slightly, very slightly less sharp when it's another mother's child? 

It brings it back, the ache, the heart clenching, breath sucking agony. 

Be close, Aaron. Close to Kingston, close to Lori, close to me.

Your birthday is less than a month away and I am lost.

Miss you so much...

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.” — Unknown

In My Heart

Dear Aaron,

I'm sitting here with a variety of feelings: grief, heartache, gratitude, peace, and love. Maybe most of all love.

I'm not even at home. I'm down in Arizona with Gramma and Grampa, but you probably know that. Gramma isn't doing well and Grampa needs help, too. Aunt Liz has been amazing but she shouldn't be shouldering the whole of it. When I got here yesterday, she'd been here since Wednesday. So I'll be here until Wednesday of this week and then we'll have to go from there. 

Gramma had fallen a couple times and Grampa wasn't able to get her up. Liz came in and helped, even figuring out why she'd fallen and helping me find everything I needed. She even had all the meds organized. 

Anyway, while I so wish you were still earthside, and I miss you with all my heart, I couldn't be here if you were. So kinda bittersweet.  

I don't know how many more Mother's Days I get with my mom. Given I'm on the other side of 50, it's pretty good odds I've had more than I have left. But at the same time, I do miss your siblings as well as you. It's quiet right now, and they life in a house I've only been to a few times in my life. But there's memories here anyway. The ceramic owl Gramma did way back when, maybe in Colorado, the swan painting I don't remember not looking at (Gramma said they got it when we were in Taiwan, so I was only 4). And some of her casserole dishes. They all bring me back to my childhood.  

I'm grateful to be here, grateful to be able to help. They've given me such a rich life, taught me so much. And, I'll be honest, I've told God I can't handle another loss right now so they need to stick around for, I don't know, forever?? 

But like you, I suspect that won't be the case. So I'll cherish what I do have now. 

Gramma gave me a bracelet with an inscription inside.  

The Day I Lost You, I Also Lost Me.
I've been trying to find myself again, but it's so hard.
It's hard because you were a huge part of my life.
Not having you here is so painful. I'm not just me anymore.

And then there's a delicate, beautiful ocean waves design on the outside, the part that others can see. 

I love that I can wear it, hold your memory close, but also not have it on display for everyone. I still carry my stone heart as well. 

Oh, baby, I miss you so much... 

Love you even more.

Love,
Mama

“When a parent dies, they are buried in the ground.

When a child dies, they are buried in the parent’s heart.”

– Proverb

20 Weeks and Mother's Day

Flowers, pinwheels, and four 
butterflies; one for each month 
you've been gone. 

Dear Aaron,

I went by your spot today and brought roses. 

Daddy bought them for me last weekend and I enjoyed them all week, but I'm heading to Arizona to help family and I wanted to bring them to you before I left. 

The sun was just peeking over the mountains, getting ready to cast its rays on your flowers and stone. The crisp air held the chirps and songs of birds. And you.  

It's Friday into Saturday. Again.

20 weeks...

How has it been this long? How has it not already been forever? 

I stopped on the way home tonight and bought a solar flower for your basket, and two balloons I'll put out when it's closer to your birthday. It's only a month and two days away, and I have no. idea. what. to. do. 

I mean, we're planning to go to the hospital and make dinner for people, but for you, for your site? I just don't know...

I was gutted again tonight. I think my body knows. I do okay (most of the time) until Friday night rolls around. I sat in the car and sobbed and wailed. Oh my son, this pain is so hard. 

And yet, I know you're okay, honestly okay, even better than okay. It's just that I miss you so much! 

So many Mother's Days have been without at least one or more of my children, but I spoke to them, they called, often we video called. And I knew they'd be back again at some point. 

You won't be. Not here, not where I can hold you. 

And it. just. hurts. 

My peace lily is slowly opening at my office, with another bud also forming. Somehow I thought it would have been quicker, but that's okay. Maybe it's trying to teach me patience, patience with my own grief and pain. 

I love you, Aaron. Thank you for being my teacher, for helping me, for opening my eyes. 

We talk of ministering angels, and I don't know why we have been so privileged to have our own in our home for so long, and to be allowed to minister to you. But I'm grateful..

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it breaks.”

– William Shakespeare

Memories

Dear Aaron,

I've been sleeping in my office again. I'm not sleeping well at night and I thought I'd try the daybed again. I mean, it's got a great mattress and is right by a window, so win for the back and win for the hot flashes. 

But I really haven't slept there since you left... 

Like everything else, it's strange. When I slept there before, the french doors stood open, and the whoosh of the ventilator and sigh of the concentrator played in the background. There wasn't much light, but there was always a little from your pulse/ox. 

And of course, you...

It was a game we played. Could I remove your toys enough that you wouldn't grab them and wake me up?

More than once I woke to, "Hi Aaron!" as you squeezed Scout's hand. Or your rainstick banging against the side, or you just kicking the rail. 

Now the french doors are closed to keep the cold night air from freezing the rest of the house, and I have slept better than in my own (normal) bed, but still...

It's quiet. No noise. No lights. 

Just my memories of you there. 

And a faint whisper of your laugh...   

Memories,

Light the corners of my mind,

Misty, water-colored memories,

Of the way we were...

-Barbra Streisand

Part of Me is Missing

Hey kiddo,

Your teacher sent me a text today. 

Next week is your dance festival and your class is dedicating their number to you. The teachers want to put your name on their sleeve. Sweet boy, you have touched so many...

I don't know if I can go, but we'll see.

And then Michael's graduation.

And then Memorial Day.

And your birthday...

Sigh......

I picked up your things again tonight, just like I do every Tuesday night and thought about what to do for Memorial Day and your birthday. Every year for the past many, Daddy has taken flowers around to all the family graves. It takes alllll day to do them; some in Salt Lake, and then more up in Logan.

But somehow I can't just see putting a potted mum on your site and walking away. That doesn't seem quite enough. 

But I don't know what to do. Anything we do seems so small, so inadequate in comparison to what you are. I'm hoping that by your birthday, your stone can be installed. It's pushing it, but maybe... One way or another, it will happen this summer, I just wish it was sooner rather than later. 

I'm so tired....

Bone deep, soul stabbing, emotionally exhausted. 

I try to function, and I put on a pretty good show.

But underneath it all, part of me is missing.

Love you, miss you,
Mama

"Moments before our walk that afternoon; I realized the path ended too soon."

— Kelly Horn

Bereaved Mother's Day - It's Me Now

Dear Aaron,

I learned today that bereaved means "to be deprived of." Yeah, that tracks.

I'm deprived of you, at least in the here and now, physically. 

Today Primary's did a memorial program, I think I mentioned it yesterday. Anyway, Utah weather put on a show and it snowed! Yeah, May 5th and the white stuff was coming down.

Makes it a little hard to release the butterflies after the program.

So they sent them home with us and we did it here. I think I may have liked that better anyway. This way Linnaea got to participate as well. She was enthralled, loving that hers really wanted to stay perched on her hand. We gently placed them on the raspberry bushes and came in for dinner.

A few hours later, I checked and two were still there, maybe kinda like you? 

You stuck around a lot longer than you were "supposed to" too, and I'm so grateful. 

I wrote a note to you. Were you reading it over my shoulder? 

I'm trying, Aaron, really. Grief is a change I didn't want. 

It's said that anxiety is found in the gap between reality and expectations. I think maybe grief is similar. I haven't found that I'm anxious, but my grief is the gap between reality without you, and the expectation that you were going to be here for, I don't know... forever? 

I love butterflies. But they don't become beautiful by crawling into a cocoon and taking a nice nap. The caterpillar weaves the cocoon around himself and then completely deconstructs, into a pile of goo. It's a mess, kinda like grief. 

It's only after a lot of work that he emerges as something glorious and beautiful. 

I hope someday I find this, too.

Love you, little man.

Miss you so much.

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

- Queen Elizabeth II 

How Do I Do This?

Dear Aaron,

Facebook reminds me of the posts I've written through the years.

It's May, the month of Mother's Day.

And Bereaved Mother's Day is the Sunday before.

Tomorrow.

And the annual Primary's memorial for the children who all died in the past year.

Died.

How????

I have shed so many tears throughout the years for my friends, mothers whose children are no longer earthside.

And now it's my turn.

I'm still not sure how to "do" this. 

The freedom to come and go, to not make plans ahead of time, or whatever.

I don't know what to do with this freedom. I feel untethered, like my rudder is missing and I drift in the wind.

Local colleges held commencement this week and last, and the University of Utah's was this week. I heard the news and went, "oh, okay" and went on with my day, not thinking about it again. 

For the past 13 years I knew when it was, what time, when they played home football games and many other events. 'Cause you know, Primary's is right up there too. I could see the stadium jumbotron from hospital windows. I took a quick trip down the road two years ago for Mary's graduation. And I knew, I knew that if we had an emergency my only hope of getting there without significant delay was to call an ambulance. So I knew traffic patterns and events and would make decisions about how he transported based on those as well as his own vitals. 

Not any more...

Today I laughed about you, and felt gratitude for your life, for being your mom, even peace.

But now it's dark, and I miss you. 

My heart hurts. Before December I didn't know that grief could cause physical pain. 

It does.

You flew off with the wings of my heart and left me flightless.
~Terri Guillemets 

Angel Kisses

Dear Aaron,

This morning I took your pinwheels over to your resting spot and put them in the flowers. You know, the ones that hung above your bed.

Tonight when I stopped after work, one was spinning, and then stopped and then spun again. I got out of the car to make sure the other could also spin freely (it couldn't) and felt the gentle breeze on my cheek.

Was that you? Did you send me kisses on the wind? I like to think so, and I smiled. 

Yesterday at my physical, I think I made the doctor uncomfortable. I told him the last four-plus months have been really hard, grief is painful. He asked about my eating habits. definitely suboptimal. He asked about sleep, pretty rough. He asked about exercise, I laughed. He paused and asked if I was at least on an upward trajectory.

I mean, I guess...

I told him that I'm getting out of bed at a decent time most mornings. For the first several weeks, I would barely roll out 45 minutes before I was supposed to be at work, and that's almost 30 minutes away. So I guess I am??

Anyway, this morning as I looked around the cemetery (like I often do) I was thinking about the morning of the Resurrection. All those loved one gone on ahead... I imagine that cemeteries will be among the most joyful places ever with loved ones reuniting. What a wonderful, beautiful, sacred day that will be. 

Sunday is Bereaved Mother's Day, and the memorial service for children who passed away in 2023.  Kiddo, you almost missed this one. A week later and we would have been invited next year. But it's probably better this way. I mean, because of my work at Primary's I know about it. I've actually volunteered the last two years. So I would have been aware and also anticipating going the next year. I hope that by next year I'll be in a place to help again, but I know I'm not right now. 

So those of us who are here and able will go on Sunday. 

My little boy. You are such a blessing to so many, and I am so grateful to be your mom.

Missing you so much.

Love,
Mama

Those delicate wanderers,

The wind, the star, the cloud...

~George William Russell

 

Circle of Life

Dear Aaron,

It's been a few days since I wrote, and yet another month you don't know. Doesn't mean I don't miss you, think about you, love you.  

There's been a lot going on; I suspect you're more than aware of it. Not my story to share yet, but both joy and heartache for people I love. 

What a blessing family is, and this whole "circle of life" thing has really got me wrapped up. Oh, my son, what a wonderful circle yours was, or is, or something. I mean, circles really never end, do they?

Today I'm going for a physical, sigh...

I was unable to find clothes that would take 15 (or more) pounds off for the scale so I guess I'm just going to have to face that one. And I recognized the mental health screening questions. Yep, I'm gonna get flagged. But maybe just a little flag? I mean, most were in the "we need to talk about this zone" but then the one that asks about how it's affecting your ability to perform your various responsibilities I think I'm okay on. I guess we'll just roll with things.

I mean, you're gone. My heart shattered in a million pieces, and while it (somehow) still functions, I don't think it will ever be the same. I'm gluing it back together, piece by piece, but even when broken things are repaired beautifully, they're never quite the same. But things like Linnaea coming up and knocking, "Can I come play?", and Elend climbing the steps and saying "Gramma, Grampa house." Your brothers teasing each other, Mary playing with the little ones, Deborah holding Barrett, and other even more tender moments...

Family. I'm so, so grateful for my family. And you're still a part of it, just where I can't see you anymore, but I think I felt you earlier this week. Was that you? Were you there?

Spring. 

My wind chimes ring.

Flowers bloom.

They go through the circle of life, too. 

Each year my tulips and daffodils come up again, even though the deer love to munch on the tulips. And each summer they die back as the other flowers bloom. 

I know you'll bloom again; I know I'll see you, hold you, love you. But sometimes, it seems like this "winter" without you lasts way too long. 

Miss you so much.

Love you even more.

Love, 
Mama

"He wasn't just dying, of course.
He was living and dying and being reborn all at the same time..."

~Frances Fineman Gunther