tending the garden

One thing I noticed when my mother died, was how one's sense of time gets warped. You can't remember whether something you did was last week or 3 months ago, and before you know it, years have passed. Time goes by with little relevance, plodding on and on, until something jolts you back into the present. It could be a happy moment, a date on the calendar, a memory, another loss; but something of significance wakes you up from your haze. Something reminds you that someone you love is missing.

It's been over two years now since dad left us. That doesn't seem possible. A whole lot of life happens in two years, yet the pain feels fresh and old, all at once. The truth is, it's always there, the grief, lingering on some level. It's whether or not you choose to acknowledge it that allows it to bloom, and only you can decide how big to let that blossom grow.

There are days now when I can think about my parents and not feel sad, and a strange guilt creeps in. Have I stopped missing them? Guilt turns to panic when I think about letting go of these feelings I've kept; like a blanket I've wrapped around myself to keep me close to them. What will it mean if I don't feel sad anymore? At what point is the grief of losing them replaced with the memories of them?

All blooms whither. It is only in this fading that we can appreciate how special and delicate the bloom is, and how fleeting is its beauty and permanence. Fear, love, grief, joy - all are blooms in the garden of life. My garden is calling me, and I'm ready.

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