― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
One morning this week, I found myself in the kitchen breathing heavily.
I was tired. I had been up early after yet another sleepless night.
I found myself blinking back tears.
“You ok?” my daughter asked me.
“Yes of course”, I shook myself. “I’m fine. All is good”.
We both knew that it’s not all good.
“I’m a bit unquiet inside”, I confessed.
I was tired. I had been up early after yet another sleepless night.
I found myself blinking back tears.
“You ok?” my daughter asked me.
“Yes of course”, I shook myself. “I’m fine. All is good”.
We both knew that it’s not all good.
“I’m a bit unquiet inside”, I confessed.
It’s the uncertainty of it all. It’s not knowing how it’s going to end, or when it’s going to end, I didn’t say.
It’s not being in control. Even a little bit.
“It’s ok to grieve”, my wise daughter told me.
“I know,” I answered. “But I haven’t really lost anything.”
“Of course you have”, she said.
It’s ok to grieve for the colossal loss of life, even if you don’t know the people personally.
It’s ok to grieve for the lost security.
It’s ok to grieve for the lost routine.
It’s ok to grieve the lost time and the lost income.
It’s ok to grieve the walks I didn’t take, the places I didn’t travel to, the sights I didn’t see, and now can’t.
It’s ok to grieve the hugs not given and the laughter not shared.
It’s ok to grieve the dances not danced, and the songs not sung.
It’s ok to grieve the relationships I let slip away throughout the years.
It’s ok to grieve the parties that won’t be celebrated and the dresses that won’t be worn
It’s ok to grieve the family you won’t be seeing.
It’s ok to grieve all those times I didn’t say “I’m proud of you” or “you make me happy” or “good job!”
Grief comes even when the sun shines, and the house is clean, and the fridge is stocked.
It comes when you find eggs after searching three different stores while wearing a mask, because you need eggs, because it's Pesach next week, and then realizing the kids won’t be around to eat the cookies.
It comes when you clean out your closet and find a dress you only wore once because you were saving it for a special occasion, and the occasion was never special enough—even though they were all so special.
It comes when the day is quiet because there aren’t any buses passing and you know that you are missing all the flowers.
Grief doesn’t disappear. It comes and it goes; it ebbs and it flows.
But the wind blows and the new leaves on the tree are bright green in the sunlight. And the birds sing, and lemon tree has three new flowers.
And my daughter is wise and my kitchen is clean.
“We need to finish this cake before Pesach”, I say to her. “I'll make coffee.”
It’s another day.
It’s not being in control. Even a little bit.
“It’s ok to grieve”, my wise daughter told me.
“I know,” I answered. “But I haven’t really lost anything.”
“Of course you have”, she said.
It’s ok to grieve for the colossal loss of life, even if you don’t know the people personally.
It’s ok to grieve for the lost security.
It’s ok to grieve for the lost routine.
It’s ok to grieve the lost time and the lost income.
It’s ok to grieve the walks I didn’t take, the places I didn’t travel to, the sights I didn’t see, and now can’t.
It’s ok to grieve the hugs not given and the laughter not shared.
It’s ok to grieve the dances not danced, and the songs not sung.
It’s ok to grieve the relationships I let slip away throughout the years.
It’s ok to grieve the parties that won’t be celebrated and the dresses that won’t be worn
It’s ok to grieve the family you won’t be seeing.
It’s ok to grieve all those times I didn’t say “I’m proud of you” or “you make me happy” or “good job!”
Grief comes even when the sun shines, and the house is clean, and the fridge is stocked.
It comes when you find eggs after searching three different stores while wearing a mask, because you need eggs, because it's Pesach next week, and then realizing the kids won’t be around to eat the cookies.
It comes when you clean out your closet and find a dress you only wore once because you were saving it for a special occasion, and the occasion was never special enough—even though they were all so special.
It comes when the day is quiet because there aren’t any buses passing and you know that you are missing all the flowers.
Grief doesn’t disappear. It comes and it goes; it ebbs and it flows.
But the wind blows and the new leaves on the tree are bright green in the sunlight. And the birds sing, and lemon tree has three new flowers.
And my daughter is wise and my kitchen is clean.
“We need to finish this cake before Pesach”, I say to her. “I'll make coffee.”
It’s another day.
Despite it all, because of it all, we are blessed.
6 comments:
Thank you.
Very nice
You have captured all the feelings so well. There is nothing more to add. Chag Sameach in every way you can.
Yes, but we can't control it. Must march on and pray.
Hoping that you & your daughter enjoyed the cake & coffee. Praying that you & whoever else is home with you, had a rewarding Seder, and that you used those eggs to make a tasty chocolaty Passover cake to eat with coffee!
You got it Rees...
Hope you're all well and safe!!
xoxoxoxoxo
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