Grief overwhelmed me yesterday.
I thought 12 months of grieving were coming to a close.
I think about her every day.
When I walk in the door at night, I still speak to her as if she’s perched on the top shelf of her condo.
Today, while scrolling Facebook, I came across a short video of a cigarette boat skating across the surface of the water, purring like a newborn kitten.
Full stop.
My eyes welled up.
I couldn’t swallow.
A huge lump formed in my throat.
Today is the first anniversary of her passing. I’ve processed so much grief since her death — grief I’d been holding onto for more than 50 years.
It’s interesting to see how and when our triggers spring into action. My emotions went from 0 to 100 in an instant.
Not because of the boat.
Not because of the water.
Because of one word.
Purr.
One small word carried an entire relationship inside it.
A boat engine purred, and suddenly she was there again.
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. It waits quietly. Then a sound, a smell, a song, a photograph, or a single word opens a door, and the person you love is no longer just a memory. For a moment, they feel wonderfully close.
For nearly a year, I’ve been doing the hard work of grieving her absence while learning how to carry her presence in a different way. Perhaps my heart is more aware of the date than my mind realizes.
Yesterday felt like grief ambushed me.
But maybe it was something else.
Maybe it was love revealing itself through a trigger I never could have predicted.
The bond remains.
The conversation continues each evening when I walk through the door.
A boat engine purred, and for an instant, my heart heard her.
And the tears that followed were not a sign of weakness.
They were a reminder of how deeply I loved her — and how fortunate I am to still love her now.
