-Isms: Views on life in rural America

Grief is a strange thing. One minute you’re going about your life, setting type on Page six of this week’s paper, and the next, you crumble into a heap, head resting on your desk on a Monday afternoon, tears streaming because it’s your Mom’s 84th birthday and she departed from this world nearly seven years ago.

Each of us experiences our own journey when we lose someone. grief does not differentiate between the ways we lose someone - death, a breakup, a misunderstanding with your closest friend. grief simmers beneath the surface and, when triggered, brings a flood of memories and emotions.

We each work through it at our own pace. grief doesn’t leave, it shifts into a new sense of normal. We make adjustments and, in our own time, come to terms with a future that contains a void we aren’t sure we’ll ever bridge.

I think author Paulo Coelho describes grief beautifully in this metaphor, “We never lose our loved ones. They accompany us; they don’t disappear from our lives. We are merely in different rooms.”

Coelho’s words may have subconsciously led to a dream I experienced last night. I was 12 again, sprawled across my bed, reading a book. Downstairs, the ‘rents were hosting their annual wine and cheese party.

Now, our Clay Center home wasn’t extremely roomy, but it wasn’t small either. Family and friends floated between the living room, kitchen and den, sipping chardonnay or merlot and snacking on trays loaded with slices of meat and cheese, a bevy of fresh-cut fruit and veggies and a display of decadent holiday treats. Mom knew how to create the perfect charcuterie board before the word “charcuterie” was trendy.

As the evening progressed, I’d sit on the upstairs landing, catching snippets of conversation between friends, neighbors and colleagues attending the get-together, wondering when I would be old enough to stay downstairs, instead of being banished to my bedroom.

Its funny. I haven’t thought about those holiday parties for years. And by years, I mean it’s been at least 40. Maybe that’s how I remember Mom - the great hostess, a master home chef, a conversationalist who made everyone feel welcome.

Last night, she occupied the kitchen, while I tossed and turned in the loft. Some things, apparently, never change.