The last time I was at the beach, I went into the water and standing about waist high I was jumping and "riding" waves with my kids and grandkids. The last time I ever did that (and am ever likely to try it again) I jumped up caught a wave - or rather the wave caught me, slammed me down to the floor of the ocean, yanked all my breath out of me, and receded as if nothing happened.
People have told me, "grief comes in waves". I guess I assumed that meant that it comes sweeping over you, you cry for a few hours or maybe a day, and then it passes.
After a week at New Wilmington Mission Conference, I spent some time with my sister in northern PA, then a wonderful, quiet few days in Cook Forest, not far from my sister's place, with just Gabi. We walked in the woods, slept in late, cooked dinner on the induction stove. I didn't have the energy to build a fire. I wrote a lot, thought a lot, prayed a lot, worked on my yarn project a lot, and cried some, too. Michael would have built a fire.
Then I came home. It was about a week after my birthday and a week before the 41st anniversary of our wedding. I walked in the house, sighed a deep sigh and slept well in my bed - our bed - that night. I woke up crying in the morning. Amira had been away and returned that evening. I cried. I cried all the next week up till the day of our anniversary. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me.
On our anniversary I remembered last year. On my birthday last year, Michael noted (somehow) that he hadn't gotten me anything. Gifts were important to him. Then he said very clearly, "That's where we are now." He couldn't smile for our anniversary picture. I just miss him so much this year.
The wave has receded. I emerged out of breath, but I'm ok. I prayed. I journaled.
Grief comes in waves. I don't ever want to go into the ocean again.