I’m angry at the sun today.
Not because it’s hiding, but because it’s brightly shining through my windows—its intensity growing every day as we head toward summer, slowly and then suddenly all at once. The angle of the sun isn’t the only sign of seasonal change. There’s the skunk cabbage appearing and the return of birds after their winter sojourns. What business does a New England girl have being pissed at signs of warmth?
Every time a new season beckons, so does my grief—loudly. I fought the tears all morning, so I could finish my book, unload the dishwasher, and pick up the house. Then, onto the freshly vacuumed floor my body went, journal in hand, ready to excavate exactly what was there. What I found didn’t surprise me, but it didn’t make it sting any less. I miss my dad. I miss sharing sports with him. This is the time of year when together we’d count down until spring training and then opening day. I miss taking the short ride over for Sunday dinner and walking into the house to find them—unpredictable, and yet so predictable. I miss my dad’s cooking, his most transparent expression of love, and his excitement about the increasing daylight allowing him to grill without a flashlight.
Perhaps the hardest part of all is that with both of them gone, I hold most of these memories alone. Just me and these run-of-the-mill moments—trying to make sense of how I ended up where I am today, knowing that understanding will always be elusive. Enough time has elapsed that judgments about how deeply I still feel this start to sneak in. But on the same token, I take comfort in the cyclical nature of everything: pain, suffering, growth, and triumphs. In fact, on March 6th, 2022, I wrote about my spring grief, and the pain points were almost identical. It made me think about how many of us are walking around with our own seasonal aches and pains, and what the world might look like if we made a little more space for ourselves and each other.
Check out the latest podcast episode:
Find your village at Knomii. Life’s too often an “or” not an “and.” Expand your perspectives and embrace your curiosity. I’ll see you there.
Maggie, I miss my son. It helps sometimes when I invite him to walk with me through the day. Holding space - D