I think one of the strangest things I’ve learned about grief is that it’s expressed in the most unusual ways. Beyond the big moments, easily understood, I’m finding it lives in the details.
I went for a pedicure this afternoon. I’ve probably gotten one a month since you died. And I remember that first time, when I realized I needed one, and how much I didn’t want to go back to my neighborhood salon. They had seen me when I was pregnant. They had seen me as a different person.
I drove a bit further down the street. I went somewhere new. And when the technician went to use the scrub brush on my feet, I stopped her. It sounds silly. It’s such a silly problem to have. But I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle anything that forced me to laugh. Laughing felt disloyal to you.
And in every salon since then, I have continued to say no. It’s felt like so much freedom. It’s felt like a strange gift. It’s just a tiny detail, and it affects my world.
I went for a pedicure today. It’s been a strange week. I am wrapped up in thoughts of you. You died a year ago this morning. And when the technician put the brush to my foot, it was seconds before I even noticed, and suddenly, I was laughing. And it was okay.
I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know if it’s normal, or if normal’s even real. It just felt right today. It felt like something I could do. This piece of life feels like something I can do.
~
Your website is ready. Your memorial is tomorrow. There are people who matter. All of us surround you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
