grieving with guinever

The 19th of November has past, which is officially the first anniversary of Alex’s death. But just like Abby’s death isn’t necessarily March 22nd for me, but rather the Tuesday between Palm Sunday and Easter, here I have another child’s death forever tied to a holiday. Two holidays, actually — the Sunday before Thanksgiving and also the day after my daughter’s birthday.

This past year as I have stood at my kitchen window every Sunday morning before the rest of the house is awake, I remember. This is where I was standing when I saw the coroner’s vehicle turn down my street, followed by two police cars. Three official vehicles. I ran to the front window to see if they would pass. They didn’t. They weren’t coming. They weren’t just passing by on the way to somewhere else. I peeked out a side window and they had all stopped.

I quickly dressed, in case they were coming to my house. There was a knock on the door. My immediate thought was–was this about Caleb, my dad, or Alex?

I quickly took in the uniformed men before me, one up on the porch, two officers behind him with badges and holstered firearms. Kindness and concern.

The window. It was the last place I was standing, the last thing I was doing before I knew Alex was gone. I often think about that. The hallway. I often think about the last words, the last hug the night before when he said yes, he’d come over the next day to celebrate Mary’s birthday. Before he left, he reached out to hug me. That had become common in the last few weeks. Usually, it was me reaching out to him. Was he saying goodbye or was he trying to find a reason to stay?

This week has been filled with so much love and concern. Monday, a coworker took me out to lunch. Someone paid for my weekly eggs. Wednesday, another person brought me the most amazing box of pastries and a friend from church brought us a meal for the evening. An envelope with familiar cursive with a heart-felt card. A stone gecko from my brother arrived as well.

Wednesday the gravestone marker was placed. Saturday, the memory items were complete that I had ordered to be made with Abby’s and Alex’s clothing. Today, my sister and her family visited.

Life is good and life is full even in the midst of grief. People are remembering. People are supporting me.