It's true. It has gotten easier. In some ways. My memories with and of my dad are still very strong. His one-liners and sayings are alive in well in the Spann family, which always evoke a smile or a laugh or a groan. But in other ways, it's not easier. Sometimes, I still have a really deep, raw grief. It usually comes over me most unsuspecting, like a pop-up summer lightening storm. Out of nowhere. Powerful and striking and demanding attention.
Other times, it's a slow, lingering ache, mostly when it hits me that he's never coming back. Never. You'd think I wouldn't need to be reminded. But I guess that's what grief does. Or is. A reminder of what was, what isn't, what won't be.
Every year at the anniversary of his death, I take time to make space and remember and honor and give thanks for him, his gifts and legacy to me and my family. And each year I've taken time to write about him.
This year, I'm thinking and remembering him. And I'm writing about my mom.
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In the moments when my spirit knew before my heart and mind knew what was about to happen in the next hours, my sub-conscious was already trying to process. The memory is planted in my mind plainly. I know exactly where I was while I was barreling down I-75 to pack a bag and return back to meet my mom and sister. When I left the hospital the plan was to get some dinner and go back in the morning. But somehow, somehow, my spirit knew those were the last words I would hear him say to me. "Thanks for coming, Holly". I was focused on driving, fast. Get there. Get back. But why? Why the rush? We hadn't been given bad news at that point. Get there. Get back. Get there. You're too young to have to worry about your parents. This shouldn't be happening. Get there. Get back. My poor mom. Oh, mom. Oh, my mom. Get there. Get back. Mom. My spirit knew.
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Mom,
What has been six years for us, has probably felt like a lifetime for you, or a moment, all at once. In those six years you have taught me so much.
No woman ever dreams of waking up on her 40th wedding anniversary less than 24 hours past making the "until death do us part" real. But you did. You put one foot in front of the other and made it through the day. And then the next and the next.
We, my sisters and I, have grieved for dad. You already know that. He's missed so much and has been missed so much. Always a missing place at our gatherings and celebrations.
Mom, we've grieved for you too. Plans blown to pieces with one last breath. Dreams of a retirement and traveling and golfing and enjoying years and years of hard work and sacrifice gone before you could process the reality.
Like parents of school children, we've been saddened to see friendships lost because you're no longer a couple. We've stayed awake waiting for your text to make sure you made it home safely, like you did for us not too many years ago. We've seen you heal and grow and move through all the stages of grief and back again. Yet, you keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Proudly from the sidelines we have cheered you on as you've dipped your toe in the waters of new friendships and hobbies and, yes, even dating.
For six years, your courage, sometimes roaring like a lion, more often, gently, daily putting one foot in front of the other.
Anyone who has met a Spann daughter knows you and dad raised strong, confident, brave, courageous women. We confidently (sometimes a little too confidently) make it known that there isn't much from which we are going to back down. I can picture dad, even today, with swollen pride taking full credit for the confident women we have become. And you. You quietly let him take the credit.
Mom, you have faced your fears and tried new things and made new friends and along the way you've taught me so much in these six years. We are so proud of you. And Dad would be too. That crooked little grin of his, saying, "Baby girl, I knew you could do it."
What I've really learned in the last six years, is that it was you, mom, who deserved the credit for our ability to keep going. One foot in front of another. Head up and confident, even when we didn't want to.
Keep stepping mom. There's not much from which you're going to back down. One foot in front of the other today. And tomorrow.
We're still cheering you on.
Love you,
H
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