March 28

We pulled in and saw a man grieving by the freshly cut mound of flowers marking his loved one's spot. A wife possibly. Hopefully not a child. I remember those first couple days. Every minute, every breath, every daily visit for those first months. The pain mixed with loss, mixed with confusion. But the years go by and the visits become less frequent. But within the blink off an eye an event brings you right back to that heaviness of loss. I laid the flowers on my great grandma's grave, my gramma's, my papa's, and lastly hers. I laid each flower with an audible 'thank you' for being responsible for bringing her into this life. For this was her birthday and as she never forgot mine, I would never forget hers. Neither will my children. It's one of our frequent trips. Sometimes to mark a holiday and sometimes we just need to feel connected. As I place the last flower on her grave I glance at the date: March 28, 1942. Without realizing this, it is my Mother's 70th birthday. And it hits me like a ton of bricks. A wave of grief. And then they start to fall. And fall. And fall. And all I can tell my daughter is what I know someday she will feel about me. That this is the crappy part about life. The losing. The remembering. As we walk away I look down and find a rock in the perfect shape of a heart. I think, 'my rock, my heart'. I listen to the signs and find comfort.