Holding on . . .

The recent passing of a friend, and then a friend’s mother, had me revisiting loss and my relationship with grief. I am always surprised by its low blow, its unfairness. I had hoped that life experience would build a protective armor around my heart. I’d be stronger; I wouldn’t cry so easily; I’d be less sad the next time heartache arrived. I’m glad that wasn’t the case. A hardened heart never helped anyone heal. That’s not to say that I haven’t hidden behind a tough shell, but soft and sentimental ways are more my nature.

This impending loss was not on my radar in early December. However, as I wrote my Christmas cards, I was reminded of those who had passed.  Scrolling my contact list, their names appeared alphabetically. My parents were first. I paused, read their names and then the address of the home where I had grown up. It’s been nearly seventeen years, and still, I felt the “missing them” so profoundly. I visited with their memories a bit longer and then continued. I wrote several more cards until another ghost appeared, causing me to pause again. This pattern of ‘here, here, gone’ repeated a few more times. I wondered why I didn’t delete their names. Maybe next year. Maybe never.  

Just last week, I was sending invites to my social media contacts, requesting they Like or Follow my new author’s page. There I found more names of friends, acquaintances and colleagues, all gone too soon. Clicking on their profiles, I found vibrant lives documented and captured in photographs. I read heavenly birthday wishes and other posthumous posts that expressed love and revealed deep grief. Some delighted in fond memories and expressed gratitude for having known such a wonderful human. I welcomed each distraction and didn’t delete a single name.

I think about artifacts of love and loss I have saved; the key to my dad’s den in a home we no longer own, a note written in my mother’s hand, funeral programs and prayer cards. Here and there, in drawers and folders, these bits of history randomly appear when I’m searching for something else. Regardless of my hurry or the importance of the task at hand, I stop and sit with the memories they stir. Sometimes I am wistful, more often I am comforted.

I am a memory keeper, the historian of my heart, its joy and its sorrow. I hold on to names on lists, pieces of paper, and a single key because I want to, because I can. I don’t get to choose loss or grief. None of us do. We never know when, we only know it’s inevitable. I choose to hold on to what I can, these unexpected reminders of good people and good times.

I hold on because even in sadness, the memory of love and being loved feels so good.

Xoc