My younger daughter deals with death on a regular basis. For two years, she has cared for people in their sunset years, and she approaches them with compassion and she treats them with dignity. And many times over the last two years, she would arrive at work, to find that someone she had spoken to only the day before had passed away. She knows better than any of us what to say, how to cope, and when to ease off and just let the family quietly grieve. And now three times in the last sixteen months, she has reminded me with simple gestures that my pain is valid and a part of life. An unpleasant and unwelcome part, but it's an inescapable part.
I was downstairs, pretending that I had the ability to focus on reviewing chapters for my midterm that was tonight (I got a 98%), when I heard my front door open. The man had left half an hour earlier to take the dogs up on another mountain overnight, and at first I thought he had come back for something he forgot. Then I heard, "Hellooooooo?" My daughter had come by with flowers and company to cushion the blow of losing Zoe. A year ago, she had flowers sent to me at the original Park, with a card to express her condolences for the loss of Cricket, and instructions to leave one flower each on Torden and Cricket's graves. As I began to clip the bottoms off of the flower stalks, she broke off one of the Zoe-colored chrysanthemums and headed toward the back door. I knew immediately what she was doing, and pointed her toward the corner of the yard, to where Zoe's lilac tree marked the spot. She said her own farewell and paid her respects.
Goodbyes are never easy, and sudden goodbyes are particularly despicable. I have received dozens of messages of solace, and one beautiful torbie bouquet. I appreciate all of them. I am using them all to cover up the raw spot in my heart. Slowly I'm learning how to function again without all my grief gushing down the front of my body for everyone to see. I'll get there soon enough.
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