March is often a chaotic and emotional month for me. It's the birth and death anniversary of my baby brother. When I think about peace, I think about the little moments that have comforted me over the past few weeks as the waves of grief ebb and flow.
1. I go for a walk on the Silver Comet Trail. I walk for miles and miles and miles. The weather is warmer now. The flowers are blooming, and the plants are coming back to life. I crave the stillness. The only sounds are the birds singing and the squirrels and chipmunks running across the trail and into the bushes and trees. I think about anything and everything. Sometimes, a runner passes by, and we share a brief nod or a smile. Sometimes, I'm surprised by a friend or coworker, and we stop to chat. And then we're on our way. I continue to walk and walk and walk.
2. I discover a new-to-me song on one of my favorite Apple's playlists, Chill Mix. Skott's Overcome has been on repeat. I always stop what I'm doing, and my eyes well up when she sings, "Do you ever wonder what it's like losing what you cannot be without?" And I wonder, is it strange to miss someone who you never got to meet? Still, I mourn. Still, I find comfort in music.
3. I reread Hello Grief by Alessandra Olanow. The images and words are much needed and appreciated. Although it's a quick read, I love that there were some great reminders.
4. I sit at my favorite spot in my home, the bay window in my dining room. I light a candle and smell the fresh flowers. I pull out my art and memory-keeping supplies and pour my emotions onto paper. It's the first time in weeks (it may very well have been a month or so) that I've actually used my crafty supplies. I realized how much I missed creating and how much I needed to make something—anything—with my hands.
5. After the boys are in bed, John and I watch a show on TV. When we finally decide to go to bed, he senses I'm feeling down. He listens while I tell him how I'm feeling and holds me until I fall asleep. I'm grateful that it doesn't matter if I need to speak or simply be held; John is always there.
6. Tonight, I sit alone on the living room couch. I sit in the stillness of the night. It's well past bedtime, and John and the boys are asleep. I allow myself to feel my emotions and grieve privately. I end up crying. I cry for my mother, who had to endure the loss of a child. No parent should ever have to go through that. I cry and wonder how she managed to overcome that loss. I will forever be in awe of Mami. I cry for my older brother and sisters because we never got to meet our baby brother. I wonder if they still grieve for him. I cried for myself and everything I had hoped for my little brother, Mike. I cry for Mike. I cry because he didn't get to experience life. He didn't get to see this world. I cry because I feel like we were robbed of his life. I cry because the "what-ifs" (and the could've, would've, should've) still plague my mind. I cry because I can only imagine what life would have been like if Mike were here...if he had lived. I cry and cry and cry. And when I stop, I embrace the stillness of the night, and for a little bit, I feel a bit of relief, comfort, and peace.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Peace."
Photo by Jun on Unsplash
