The Corners of My Mind

Anyone who has lost a spouse, child, parent or dear friend knows there is no way to predict when a memory of that loved one may be triggered by something someone says or does, or by something we read in the paper or see on TV. Sometimes the memories are painful and make us cry; sometimes they make us smile.  I still think of my Mom, who died six years ago, whenever I have a dish of ice cream, and I smile. Mom loved ice cream. She had it every night before going to bed, and we used to tease that it was her primary food group. In contrast, my eyes fill with tears every time I hear "Seasons of Love," from the Broadway musical Rent, because it reminds me of my beautiful and loving niece, who died tragically at age 28. After her funeral, we honored her memory by playing a recording of that song while scattering rose petals on the lake behind her parents' home.

After almost two years, I can pretty much predict the triggers that will evoke painful memories of Art. News that someone I know and love has been diagnosed with cancer, or has a spouse or family member battling this insidious disease, inevitably triggers a flood of memories of the months Art struggled with lymphoma. Although I still think of those times more often than I probably should—especially at night when I'm trying to get to sleep—the intensity of my grief has diminished. I think that's a good thing. Grieving can be exhausting.

More and more the memories of Art that pull at the corners of my mind on a daily basis are triggered by mundane activities.  When I'm baking, I think about how Art loved to lick out the bowl especially when  I made lemon pie filling; and if I baked chocolate chip cookies when Art wasn't home, I always saved him a teaspoon of the dough—in the refrigerator carefully wrapped in plastic wrap—for him to eat when he got home. I hear a Johnny Mathis song on the radio and I remember that Art took me to a Johnny Mathis concert on Valentine's Day when I was a senior in college. When I go to Costco, I think of  the many times Art would suggest we do our Costco shopping at lunch time. "I'll even let you buy me lunch," he'd say, and I would tease him about being a "cheap date."

I walk past the kitchen window that looks out onto the lanai and, although I no longer expect to see Art sitting there in his favorite spot, I remember him sitting there reading and listening to jazz on his iPod. Sometimes I would join him, but, except for Sunday mornings when we would sit out there together and read the Sunday paper, more often than not I was busy with a writing project or doing something else around the house. In retrospect, I regret not spending more time sitting out there with him; and for a long time after Art died, I couldn't bring myself sit on the lanai alone.

Now I sit on the lanai and read quite often. I listen to my iPod, and I even sit in Art's favorite spot. I think that would be called "making progress."