The light died

I saw you today; actually, I’ve seen you a few times in the last few weeks, but today, there was an actual conversation. 

I did what I do; asked how I could help; directed you as needed, and tried a hold a very ‘normal’ conversation with you.

I didn’t want to bring up painful memories from that day that changed your world. Not even to ask how you were doing; I didn’t even want to imply that I was asking about that day.

I know how tedious and exhausting it can be to have every conversation be about that.

I didn’t want details, I didn’t need them; too many live in my head as it is.

What I wanted was to provide a space where you weren’t defined, reminded, or reduced to the worst moments of your life. I can’t even say they were your worst, not knowing what you’ve lived through outside of that day. So, maybe… not defined, reminded, or reduced to one of the worse moments of your life. 

And it was harder than I thought it would be… the careful phrasing of ‘how are things’; the avoidance of asking after one child for fear of bringing up the one who is gone, unable to recall either of their names-or wondering how the third child I do remember is, not knowing if you’re still in touch with him; and the words you chose with care as well; to not define or reduce yourself to those moments. And it felt awkward, so, very awkward. But I hope you understood it came from a place of compassion and empathy…we’re kindred, in a way. Marked by things that destroyed us, before we could find or try to rebuild who we are. 

And I saw it. The light you carry is different, almost like it’s died, almost like it died with him. Something substantial changed for you that few, even me, could understand. We’re never the same again once something so soul shattering changes the core of who you are, or were, or worked to become. You can’t go back, you can’t undo, you can’t un-feel, or unknow that kind of presence on your soul. 

But slowly, you begin to bring pieces back together, stitching them together with grit and grace, with the tears that no one saw and the screams that no one heard. You move forward past one day, a week, a month, a moment. You survive the first anniversary’s, the first birthday’s, and the first moments where life went from before this happened to after this happened. It’s all split in two some days.

On my youngests’ graduation day, I cried for the woman who thought her husband wouldn’t see any of their children graduate and wept for the one who stood beside him and watched him see them all.  It’s a jest, that grief can and will pull you in two directions even when all you want is to feel the joy. 

But I know what its like for the light to dim. And I know what it takes to find it again. 

And I hope one day, you will.

For now, feel what you feel over the next few months; I know in 6 months, you’ll feel the pain of that day again, you’ll feel the pain of having one year without him. You’ll try to hold onto the lighter moments, to only feel them with happiness instead of the grief that hit you in them; and you’ll stumble, and you’ll pick yourself up again, because that is who you are. You try to light up for the joys that are left in your life even as you fight the grief and bury the scars you carry. 

And know that it’s ok if the light goes out, even if it’s just temporary. Someday, you will light up again.

The light always finds it’s way.