This afternoon the wind in Waltham Massachusetts reminded me of the wind in the Midwest as we traveled home from Colorado last month.
It was fierce and relentless then and very noticeable today. Outside of Costco, it felt haunting and made me sad.
In Nebraska and Iowa, the wind set trees and grasses to juddering and on those long straightaways made our car wobble too. The gusts ripped plastic utensils out of my arms and practically slammed the car door on me as I tried to climb back into the front seat at one rest area.
It was so omnipresent and harassing that I began to believe that even absent the harsh conditions farmers currently face (think: bankruptcy and isolation), the wind alone would drive folks to despair.
From this morning’s dog walk
Bought some pansies and several bags of dirt, manure, and mulch. Now, how about a day with temps in the low 60’s? It’s been cold.
Nothing matters and everything matters. Dust, ash, sunlight.
If time were an ally, it would lie in my lap and purr. Instead, it snaps in the frigid air like the cowhides once wielded by slave drivers to terrorize those bent over in the fields. Snap. Snap.
Can you count? I’m not sure. Because numbers aren’t really on my side either.
One month and six days.
The hollyhocks arrived. Two of them. Two lupines too because I read they’ll grow in the detritus under a birdfeeder. I’m gonna give clematis another go even though I’ve watched two or three or maybe even four crump before surviving a third season.
Five packs of morning glory seeds arrived. For years, one darling deep purple flower has appeared near the front stoop. I wait for it. Look for it.
This year, I didn’t want to rely on such slim odds. I didn’t want the suspense of wondering: will that morning glory return?
The seeds require scarification. “Rub them between sandpaper,” says the website, “then soak the seeds overnight.”
It is still too early to be planting in New England. Around here you wait at least until Mother’s Day, Memorial Day being better.
But how to wait, when the wish to add color and variety to the garden feels like a wish to survive? Without the garden, without the season of spring, without all that dirt beneath my fingernails, who even am I?
You’d be surprised what brings gratitude in these days of loss. Here’s one: I’m grateful I probably won’t live long enough to mark 20 years without him.
I’m grateful we can absolutely stay home this July and August. No scrambling for a destination, dog sitters, and reservations. We don’t have to go anywhere in September or October either. What a relief! What a fucking relief.
Another way the world has turned inside out.
In those last 10 days of Danny’s life, I walked over to Walgreens and bought white stickers for my calendar. Carefully, I covered up all the March hotel reservations we’d made for Montgomery and Vicksburg, for Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I didn’t want Danny to see them and feel bad that we had canceled a trip in order to be with him
“To be with him,” doesn’t begin to describe those last 10 days. He came and went like the ghost he was about to become. How little he noticed about his father or me or anything, really, made the stickers unnecessary.
The departure before the departure.
Now I can’t fathom wanting to fly to Montgomery and drive down to New Orleans. I can’t even fathom going to a beach on the North Shore because we used to visit Cape Ann as a family.
I’m busy muting words and marking posts as “not interested.” I don’t want to see references to Denver or Boulder or CU or Longmont. But after years of looking at real estate out there, it’ll take a while. And then there were all those recent searches: Reiki masters, intensive outpatient programs, post-suicide support groups, and so so many other things — all were local to Longmont and the intrusive algorithm remembers.
The pithy and sometimes wise quote-slides on Instagram about grief are another matter. They don’t spark hope, nothing could, but some speak about a path forward — and even though I have yet to believe a way forward exists, I linger on those quotes as if taking medicine.
The year of firsts. To start us off: Mother’s Day. I use the hand cream that Danny gave me last year now and then. He gave it to me in person because we were visiting Longmont last May. It’s the best kind of gift – indulgent but something I’d never have chosen for myself. I love the way the lotion smells. Unique. Not quite floral. How long will it last, I wonder every time I pump a dab into my palm.
We plan a new stoop to replace the crumbling brick one out front. It’s unsound, precarious even. Bluestone would be nice, expensive but nice. But if we’re not going to Colorado or Alabama or even to Gloucester, there are funds. The entrance to a house sets the tone, experts will tell you. We can make ours sturdier and more visually appealing.
If the season goes as expected, from the newly rebuilt stoop you’ll be able to see hollyhocks, lupines, and morning glories, plus birds flitting on and off the feeders. That might be the most extravagant pleasure I can muster this summer.
Meanwhile that box is filled with delicious rolls and soups and cookies. Thank you, Carol!
I have cooked about three times since we’ve been home. Can you imagine? Tonight, Risa brings dinner. Tomorrow, Ellen. Jane is on for Friday. The meal Rachel gave us last Friday provided at least three dinners and two lunches. We still have soups and prepared chicken dinners in the freezer from last week and the week before.
The bounty. The generosity. The care. It continues to blow me away.
It’s Tuesday and that means I get to sit and write with a bunch of pretty amazing women.
Can I tick any of these off or is it all premature wishful thinking right now? It’s a little hard to imagine how Danny’s death does anything but diminish me.
It’s sunny but cold today. Ken will walk Finn while I write which means that this afternoon I can snuggle under my electric blanket and sew.
Another nighttime capture
I made sourdough croutons this morning. An act of normalcy. I baked the bread cubes first, then sautéed them in olive oil with garlic slices, lots of salt and pepper, and a dusting of ground thyme. Yum.
I wake to the cries of the mourning doves. Coo, coo, they call. Then the dog’s sigh. He hops up for his morning pets moments after.
How the day starts.
A light frost this morning underscores The Globe’s reporting that the runners in the 130th Boston Marathon will face slightly cooler temps than usual today.
Last week with the race on the horizon, I was prompted to remember that when we toured CU in April 2013, the Marathon Bombing happened. The days that followed were a weird split screen between highlights of the campus and the horror coming out of Boston.
When we landed at Logan we weren’t sure we’d be able to get home. Cabs were not allowed. Busses weren’t running.
We could however retrieve our car. Once off the Turnpike, we drove through the part of Newton that abuts Watertown where an intense police search was going on.
It was spooky. Both towns locked down. Very few cars on the road.
I look back and go, “Huh. So that was Danny’s introduction to CU/Boulder.”
Sunday in Boston: the gorgeous plantings at the Gardner Museum were food for the soul.
They also pained me as reminders of our trip to a butterfly garden north of Denver about this time last year.
Once again I lament the stupidest things. How I took endless close ups of the tarantulas next door or that I recorded several two-minute videos of fluttering insects. And only these two pictures of Danny. They’re not even decent pictures.
The atrium at the Gardner
And it wasn’t just the plantings at the Gardner that got me. Italian marble and sculptures put me in mind of our trip to Rome and Florence in May of 2024.
He had blond hair that season. I liked it. Danny was relaxed and engaged for those eight days. It was such a good trip.
Today I take Finn to the vet for a check up and finish the Raskin memoir. I might bake some shortbread to bring our neighbor who broke his hip. I don’t know how people get through early grief while working or tending to a family.
“You’re in shock,” we keep getting told. “You’re in shock.” I’m not sure I know what that means but one hint is how skewed time is — the calendar has almost no meaning.
What do you mean it’s less than three weeks till May 1? I thought it was a month and a half from now. When did I travel to Colorado? When did I get back? Wasn’t it like two months ago? Has it even been a month since he took his life?
No. Not even one month.
That’s in four days. THAT point in time is rock hard clear.
The number of times I can’t find my phone throughout any given day has easily doubled. Is this what they call grief fog?
At lunch, I cry. On the phone with BZ in the evening, I cry. After breakfast, writing three thank you notes, I cry. Talking to a neighbor on the curb about her father’s suicide, I cry. Lying down to sleep for the night, I cry.
I try not to think about that last day because it’s so traumatizing, but even to remember ordinary days with him in them, ordinary memories of a family of four, creates a different kind of agony.
I made those pj bottoms
Today I will drive 28 minutes north and talk to a book group about The Weight of Cloth. I’m bringing some indigo-dyed cloth. I’m bringing a pile of books that I consulted for research. I am bringing a determination to let the two hours serve as a healthy distraction.
Mood board from writing days
I must end with gratitude. The cards, flowers, food and offers for food keep arriving. It’s astonishing, really. Thank you Kim. Thank you Risa and Kris, Pamela and Joel, Ellen. Thank you Barbara and Candy. Thank you Mark and Ruthann and Brenda. Thank you Diane. That’s just the last few days!
Note: at this point, people are apologizing for responding “late.” In this realm of communication, there is no “late.” A card with beautiful remembrances of Danny will be welcome any day from now until my last day and arriving on an otherwise quiet mail day turns out to be rather perfect timing.
