For Thor - 39 - Easter

There is a potful of hyacinths on the coffee table. They offer a sweet fragrance that I try to take in but their perfume can't permeate the sadness of my heart.

There is a bowlful of jellybeans on the coffee table. They are cheery in their bright promise of sweet fruity flavors for my tongue. I give one a try, but they taste flat.

There are Peeps and Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and malted-milk eggs, too.

I boiled eggs and peeled them to eat for breakfast.

The Easter Bunny came to visit and left new fishing gear for all of us - a tradition in our family since your very first Easter when you got a Snoopy pole.

It looks like Easter. The chorus "He is Risen" is resounding on my Facebook feed and in the very air around us as the world celebrates The Resurrection. Those three words hurt a lot this year. They don't instill hope in my heart as they intend.

Rejoice! He is Risen!

Not for me. When I hear those words today, all I feel instead is…"He is Dead." Fini. Done. Ended. Fucking over. MY son will not be rising to join us for Easter supper. My son will not be here to go fishing with us this year. MY son...is gone.

There is a Thor-sized hole in my heart that weeps constantly and on days like today it overflows with tears.

A deep-boned sadness lives inside of me. Like a shadow, it follows me no matter where I go or what I do. Have you ever noticed how a shadow's intensity is directly related to the intensity of the light by which it is cast? With each step I take toward healing, the shadowy specter of you, our new relationship, this grief and sorrow becomes more defined. It's as if it is taking on a collection of traits, an identity that distinguishes it from any other grief. And today, under the soft glow of an Easter dawn it lays heavy across my heart. One more milestone in the "year of firsts without you" is upon me.

I've always loved Easter. Even as a girl, it was one of my favorite holidays. Hope and renewal imbue the rituals and rites that mark its observance. Symbolic eggs, chicks, bunnies and flowers all singing the praises of a renewed life around us as the wheel of the year turns to spring. The miraculous rising of Jesus from the tomb reminding me that I am reborn when I forgive and love as he taught us to love - joyfully and without judgment.  I am trying to connect to these beautiful concepts that can infuse my heart with gladness and hope. But today they are as tangible as echoes across a canyon.

Even my most simple gratitude practice is a tired struggle; so many great blessings surround me, it would be laughable if I weren't so sad. Everything feels like an enormous effort, and when I do get something done, there is no satisfaction in it. I hear myself laugh, but it sounds hollow. I observe myself being carried along on conversation and wonder how it's possible when my mind is a million miles away. It must be a memory of polite behavior that is magically applied and allows me not to be a total asshole.  Grace has my back…

I've been severely depressed before, and this is not it. It occurs to me that grief, perhaps, is depression's noble cousin. It is noble because it has a reason for being--your death-- is the justification for taking over my body, heart and soul. I would like to know where it leads, though. Will I ever walk again? Run freely? Be happy? I've heard over and over that there will be unbearable days and that these will cluster around holidays or other special days - the ones that matter to us. Maybe this extra-think blanket of sadness has everything to do with it being Easter; a holiday that is in direct opposition to how I feel inside.

You've kept me awake the past three nights, darling boy. It's as if you know that I have found a new depth in the well of grief, and you've come to be with me as I continue to fall into this abyss. I am beginning to think the well of grief is a black hole that sucks everything into it with an inescapable force. It appears to be devoid of anything, but in fact, contains everything. The catch is that to regain what was lost; I have to go through it. I have to survive the bone-crushing, heart-wrenching, gut-twisting forces that pummel me here. I have to be willing to let loose of everything, including my attachment to you, Thor, so that I may emerge on the other side renewed and imbued with the knowledge of Peace and all that encompasses. This is a resurrection journey, so maybe it's a good story for Easter, after all. 

The ticket to go on this trip is easy to get if I am willing to feel whatever arises if I can lean into the pain, let the tears come and to be at peace about it. One day several years ago, I took part in a fascinating discussion with Aunt Radha, Nana and Grandpa. We were exploring the question "What is happiness?" After much consideration, we agreed that anyone is happy who is rooted in peace each moment, no matter what is happening in that moment. So, even when I am crying out of grief, if tears are what the authenticity of that moment calls for, then tears of grief are truly happy tears. They are a perfect expression of that moment and pure self.

Some well-meaning people tell me that you wouldn't want me to grieve or be sad. I respectfully disagree…you would want me to do what I must do to cope; I feel an indescribable depth of despair and sadness. Jelly beans or no jelly beans, Easter rolls around, and I am wretched over the fact that you are not here. I am miserable in knowing that our family is broken, that you are gone. It fucking sucks that you won't go fishing with us.  Feeling like I feel in each moment and not running from it is my work, it defines this new journey as your mom. I am grieving, and in the most existential sense, I am content to do that for as long as it takes.

I may not be rejoicing on Easter, but that's okay. Others can express that joy on my behalf; I will continue to go through the motions of celebrating a holiday with the family since that is what is also in front of me to do today. We all hurt, we all feel the terrible pain of your loss; hopefully, as we come together to share a meal and fellowship, there will be smiles to shine through the tears.

I love you,
Mom