It has been 429 days. I made it through the last of the firsts,honored a year of grief and unimaginable circumstances, and made a mental note that, despite marking the year with love and courage, I knew deep down grief was here to stay for a while.  Grief tinges the very fabric, the canvas of what was and what will be.  Grief fools you into thinking it has ebbed into the void-and then , just like that, the flow of grief stops you for a minute, an hour, a day, and reminds you what it can do. Throw in the trauma and extreme sadness of suicide, and the impact of grief can not be waved away or shaken from the Instamatic image of these pictures in the corners of my mind- no, make that, the corners of my soul.  Grief- the beast of grief -has a way of getting into the thread of life in ways that do not always scream-or announce, when it comes to stay.

Grief whispers sometimes.  Many times, it is the whisper that aches the most.  I am crying in silence, on the ride home, in the shower, on the long walk. It whispers when the residue and paperwork of death linger, still. It whispers, when for just a what if disillusioned moment, you think he will walk through the door.  It will be a whiff of a familiar scent, it will be the loneliness of touch, a missed phone call, a picture that falls out of a book, marking a memory long gone and fading. Let us please not forget.  It will be at odd hours,this grief.  It finds me in the wee hours, staring up at the ceiling,  it is the odor, the smells, the scent of my memories,of a shirt or sweater, skin, a broken light-bulb, a candle burning, a book that falls from the shelf- roast chicken in the oven for Sunday dinner.  It is the ache of loss, it is the grip of anger, the void of contact, comfort and confidence. It is the want, to share the good news, the milestones, the markers that say to each other, “yes, we have been here for a while and I know you well.”

It is the weary ride home, it is the reality, the unforgiving reality that never again will you kiss good morning, reach over in the middle of the night,steal an afternoon, or a lazy morning,never again will you know the reach, stretch, grab, cling, for the one person who knew you well enough to crumble and fall-to stumble into the dark of pain. I will say this again:  Grief is unforgiving.  It has no schedule, no regimented system.  It shows up, sneaks up and without warning, there it is and there you are, here I am, in this remarkable broken down place of beginning again, not knowing what is around the corner.  I am here.  Right here.  In this place of not knowing.

Just last week, someone told me I was lucky. That comment cut like a knife, and  has been with me since. In the last 2 months, I  sold a home, purchased a home, packed up a home, my daughter, and moved. We left what once was. And remarkably with only a few items and boxes.  I left what once was and it happened so quickly. Call it circumstance, fate or simply the master plan, but just like that, my daughter and I walked away from what was,  and it all unfolded in a way I never saw coming, and never would have, could have, imagined how people and places would come together to reweave the fabric of my life. Those who are helping me create new chapters of my story.    I have sifted through countless memories, unpacked more, and left some still in the protective layers of bubble wrap and time . I am not sure I am able to unpack them.  Maybe I never will. Maybe it will be forever. Certainly not now.  For a while my daughter and I let the echos of an empty new space be the sound that soothed the stress of starting over-of beginning again-of stepping into a new place without the person that completed the triad. Three was our magic number.  Now we are two.   My daughter started school this September without the interruption of sudden death and the loss of her father.  I started the last two semesters of my masters program, took on a challenging internship, dug my heels into this thing called single parenting, and began to slowly piece together what this new life will look like and then some. I put a fresh coat of paint on what was, I restored sentimental furniture, dug in for the season of dead leaves falling. I am holding on for holiday season number two less one.

Lucky?  If lucky is having, no, rather, finding the courage to take what was and begin again, then I wish us all the luck to know what it really feels like to hear your soul whisper, “you can do this.”  And for your heart to answer, “let me.”

Let me bear the weight of this grief as it comes and goes with the luck to know I will do this.I can do this.  Let me be lucky enough to know I will manage the unknown, the layers of complexity, the sadness.  Let me get back to the me, however redefined and begin again.  Let me continue to rise every morning and bow my head in gratitude. For breath.  For strength. For love. For broken down places that can heal. Let me move on towards what I love to do and what loves me.  Let me embrace the gift of motherhood, of watching my daughter navigate all that she is and all the places she will go.  Let me cry, and weep, and wail.

Let me be lucky enough to know the unknown when it comes and goes and becomes familiar once again.

Let us all be lucky.