I looked for you at the grocery store – in the soup aisle, in the bread area of the bakery, by the colorful and confusing boxes of pop, but I didn’t see you anywhere. I noticed there were no small containers of Turner’s whole milk and I knew you’d be disappointed. I remembered, as I passed the frigid butter boxes, that you had about 5 expired boxes of Land ’O Lakes butter in your refrigerator when I cleaned it out two months ago. It was the salted butter, that’s the one we like best.
I always park close to the store, so the walk is easier for us. I’ve been to the store three times since you died and the first two times I parked in the same place where we always park. Today, I parked in a different spot, across the street and on a different side of the store. I wish I could say that I laughed at myself when I couldn’t find my car after shopping. My ironic confusion only made me feel more exhausted.
On New Year’s Eve, I listened to some of your messages on my phone. On one day in July, there were 11 messages from you which range from sweet to cruelly delusional. Contrary to the expected reaction, I sit completely dry-eyed and listen to your voice – even the angry messages bring me a familiar sort of peace.
I look for you at your house, expecting to see you in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the sun room. I sit quietly on the couch and fix the blanket and the pillows when I leave, because I know how you like them to be neat and straight.
The world continues on its path forward. People are out shoveling snow and I see a dog playing with young kids like something out of a Hallmark movie or an insurance commercial. My life is forever altered marking a “before” and an “after”, but life in general continues without missing a single beat. This is simultaneously devastating and comforting.
At my house, I hear your voice kindly commenting on the little kitchen shelf and the new creamer I bought last week. I look for you around the corner and expect the dog to be barking at your awkward movements as you try to find a place for your coat and your purse. But the dog isn’t barking, your coat isn’t here.
You, are not here.
Where are you?
spanishwoods 
I did laugh at car in a different place. I have the one aisle I always park in the car park. Either side or end doesn’t matter as long as if my car is in that aisle, I’ll find it 😁
From a bit before and after that bit 🥹
More hugs 🤗🤗🤗
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Laughing is my coping mechanism and I have always been able to laugh at myself. The irony of my mum having dementia and my forgetting where my car was parked wasn’t lost on me. It’s a testament to my spirit feeling so tired that I couldn’t laugh at myself in that moment. Thank you Brian.
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Hugs to you, Sylvia.
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Thank you Lynette.
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When someone is gone, all that’s left of them, are the, memories, and, good or bad, it’s all a, part of that past that’s made us into, who, we are now, so, there’s no need to, overanalyze, or to, overthink it, just, allow that grief to, flow through, you, and, you will soon, heal up, little by, little…
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Thank you.
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“The world continues on its path forward…” So true!
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Always confusing but also comforting. I’ve experienced this before with other losses so I recognized the feeling. It’s like watching life projected on a screen.
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Sylvia, I think everyone can relate to this piece of emotional writing in one way or another. If you’ve experienced many losses, maybe it even reflects an amalgamation of those experiences and the specificity over the years.
Beautiful.
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Thank you Laura. My mother’s name was Laura too. So beautiful.
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Thanks for sharing. The oddness of life continuing its lifing is a snag in the fabric of my expectations. This too shall pass pass, I always connected to unpleasant, and things i didn’t want…waiting for them to leave. When I suddenly noted change wasn’t comfortable I also realized everything is changing all of the time. That it was is only the self that believes itself that things are able to be stable and i get to staple down what I judge as good, and keep it. While trying to deny or rid what it calls bad…how seriously it takes itself, calling it true.
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Yes, the ego is so tenacious. Change can be challenging.
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🙏🏼 A beautiful piece, Sylvia. 💜
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Thank you Eliza.
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Hugs for you, Sylvia, be well. 🙏🏻❤️
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Thank you John. The other day I heard someone say they often think of their friends in two camps, those that have lost a parent and those that haven’t. I know you have lost yours as well. And although grief is grief and we all experience it in life in one way or another, some experiences of grief come with such specific markers. I think the loss of our parent(s) is one.
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After my husband died, trips to the supermarket became very difficult. As everything else. I was surprised that the store held so many memories.
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I didn’t see that one coming. The first time I had to leave my cart and leave the store.
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It took many months to be able to go without crying. For a while, I changed stores.
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I did that too after the first time. And how interesting that the same things, the milk, the butter, the soup, the specific bread — all the things that trigger my acute feelings of loss didn’t trigger it in the same way in a different location.
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You phrase your lines so naturally and beautiful,
Everything comes to life, this makes your pain and loss, enormous touchable.
Wishing you strengt and courage, Sylvia.
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Thank you.
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