It’s ironic, I suppose, that I just wrote about my thoughts and leanings on how much I open up in this space, and here I am now, with words tripping over themselves in my mind and I’ve gone mute. I can’t talk at work because talking makes me cry, and I don’t like to cry at work, but who am I kidding really? I cry anyway, just quietly in the corners. I cry all the way to work, as soon as the last little one is dropped off. The tears well up in my eyes as soon as I walk out of my office at the end of the day, before I even reach the stairs or leave the building. The time changing darkness is working in my favor then. I arrive at home with puffy eyes to a set of arms that encircle me and I can take a deep breath because he knows. He’s right there with me. These are long days, although they should be getting shorter. The longer nights are better for being at home, anyway.
It’s ironic that I described the beginning of this journey as a seesaw, when that’s exactly how I would describe the end of it. My emotions are bouncing all over the place. I want to think that I am changed, and that I have a new perspective on things. That I hold my family closer and tighter and let the little things roll off my back. But I don’t. They still bother me, and I don’t have the capacity for patience or understanding because I’m simply drained. I don’t feel lucky, I feel fragile. Everything feels fragile and fleeting.
It’s ironic that I notice irony, because frankly every single thing I’ve written lately seems to have come back to bite me, taunt me. Titling a post incongruous like I had any idea what that word could really mean. Telling others it was a beautiful service, as if there could be anything lovely about it outside of her, and she’s not there. Talking about needing big moves in my life, something to keep my hands and head and heart busy, and then finding myself with M, in a basement for two days and two nights, sorting through and assembling hundreds of photos, trying to tell a story of what she meant to us – our family, her friends, this world.
For eight months we’ve asked what can we do? is there anything we can do? and it’s hard to be so far away and so anxious and so removed. Having something to do was a welcome thing, although I won’t lie and say that it was easy. Those hours the two of us spent sorting through all of those photos were tough. That child lit up a camera like she lit up the room.
That first morning we were there, I stood in the shower and thought about the task ahead. I imagined a ribbon – maybe even one of the million orange twisted ribbons we’ve all been wearing and displaying for so many months – but unfurled and stretched out. Cancer had been such a huge focus this year – but it was just a fraction of her life story. I wanted to talk about her strength and her bravery, but she was so much more than just that. I imagined a ribbon that wasn’t really a ribbon – but was made up of thousands of little butterflies or flowers, winding its way across the boards. M and E and I went to the store and started looking around. We found sparkling, glittery paper in every shade of the rainbow. We laid the sheets out on the floor and moved them around, this way and that, and settled on twenty sheets of various colors. We bounced ideas off one another. M wanted it bigger, more beautiful, so we bought more. One of the things I will remember about that week will be the time the three of us spent in that empty aisle of Michael’s, working together and thinking about her.
It’s ironic that I described the beginning of this journey as a seesaw, when that’s exactly how I would describe the end of it. My emotions are bouncing all over the place. I want to think that I am changed, and that I have a new perspective on things. That I hold my family closer and tighter and let the little things roll off my back. But I don’t. They still bother me, and I don’t have the capacity for patience or understanding because I’m simply drained. I don’t feel lucky, I feel fragile. Everything feels fragile and fleeting.
It’s ironic that I notice irony, because frankly every single thing I’ve written lately seems to have come back to bite me, taunt me. Titling a post incongruous like I had any idea what that word could really mean. Telling others it was a beautiful service, as if there could be anything lovely about it outside of her, and she’s not there. Talking about needing big moves in my life, something to keep my hands and head and heart busy, and then finding myself with M, in a basement for two days and two nights, sorting through and assembling hundreds of photos, trying to tell a story of what she meant to us – our family, her friends, this world.
For eight months we’ve asked what can we do? is there anything we can do? and it’s hard to be so far away and so anxious and so removed. Having something to do was a welcome thing, although I won’t lie and say that it was easy. Those hours the two of us spent sorting through all of those photos were tough. That child lit up a camera like she lit up the room.
That first morning we were there, I stood in the shower and thought about the task ahead. I imagined a ribbon – maybe even one of the million orange twisted ribbons we’ve all been wearing and displaying for so many months – but unfurled and stretched out. Cancer had been such a huge focus this year – but it was just a fraction of her life story. I wanted to talk about her strength and her bravery, but she was so much more than just that. I imagined a ribbon that wasn’t really a ribbon – but was made up of thousands of little butterflies or flowers, winding its way across the boards. M and E and I went to the store and started looking around. We found sparkling, glittery paper in every shade of the rainbow. We laid the sheets out on the floor and moved them around, this way and that, and settled on twenty sheets of various colors. We bounced ideas off one another. M wanted it bigger, more beautiful, so we bought more. One of the things I will remember about that week will be the time the three of us spent in that empty aisle of Michael’s, working together and thinking about her.
click images to enlarge
The ribbon curls – briefly – into that orange leukemia ribbon, but it mostly stretches across sixteen feet of boards, winding its way through the photos. (Afterwards we noticed the curled ribbon looked like it formed a lower case “e” as well.) E’s idea to start the ribbon with all the colors was a good one, and the various shades blend across the boards, ending in white and silver as they move off the last one. We bent two of the petals of each hydrangea blossom so that they catch the light and sparkle as if they are moving. I think they look like butterflies, and I love that. Our whole family punched those blossoms in four sizes, and the room we were working in was soon covered in glitter. We saw little sparkles of color on our cheeks and our hands all week long. Little bright spots in the midst of grays and the rain.
A dear friend sent me the scripture at the end, and it was perfect.
It wasn’t difficult to describe her, it wasn’t hard to put it onto paper. She is beautiful, she sparkles, she dances. She is strong, she is brave. She is loved. She is missed. She is one of a kind.
She is missed.
Oh my goodness that is beautiful. Your family remains in my prayers.
It’s an awesome tribute. I know how futile it feels, but I do think you captured a bit of her sparkle here.
I am so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful way to celebrate her life.