Remembering

I’ve been watching some friends’ journey towards the first anniversary of the loss of a close family member.  It is a terrible thing to relive such a loss, and it is also a terrible thing to watch helplessly as someone endures it.  It’s so odd to know in a very vivid way what someone else must be feeling and to know at the same time that their experience will also be uniquely specific to them, and therefore peculiarly lonely.  I think back over what it felt like when I was coming up to the first anniversary of Ramsy’s death.

Remembering the renewed stream of memories from our family’s “old life” (before Ramsy got sick) and from the time just before he died.  How those memories were sometimes so foremost in my mind that realizing that other people were not experiencing the same memories was like hearing music that somehow nobody else could hear.  How those memories made it seem like I was constantly moving through a time warp and I wasn’t sure where or when I really was.  How I didn’t know what my kids needed from me as the anniversary approached; whether they wanted me to refer to it explicitly or just to talk about their dad more often or to be quiet about it.  How I hunted in my mind for just the right way to observe this event.  How badly I needed to know that other people were remembering Ramsy, and us, and missing his presence.  How often I needed to go for very fast walks, just to be able to stay inside my own skin. 

To the people who prayed for us through that time: thank you.

To the people who sent cards or emails: thank you.

To the people who remembered and cared but found no words and could only hug us: thank you.

To those of you who know someone who is missing someone: the small acts of kindness you think of, the seemingly inadequate words you come up with, the wordless hugs you give, the prayers you pray that just don’t feel like enough – they matter.