Grief is such a strange companion. At first, it seems all consuming. Everything is colored by grief. In time, it mellows. As it weaves itself into the fabric of your days, it seems to fade into the background. Always there. Always ready. And sometimes, it is the little things that catch you off guard. Little, often unimportant always unexpected.
I recently moved my blog. Some files got lost in the move; a lot of links to files were broken. I’ve slowly been going through them, a post at a time, to clean house. Most of them were not particularly important. For the most part, I’ve just been deleting the evidence. Delete the link, delete the broken image link icon, delete the reference to what used to be there.
Then I come across an old recipe to watermelon rind jelly. This isn’t a recipe blog so I don’t count recipes among my most important posts. But some of them are unique and I get a steady stream of traffic to all of them.
Steady being one or two a day. Because let’s be real. I’m not the Pioneer Woman.
It’s a broken image link. I actually remember this picture. It’s a little boy eating watermelon. The picture is still in my media files. I saw it while I was looking for something else. But is it important, stuck here at the end? Does it add anything to the post? Not really. I delete it. Then I read the rambling paragraph after it. It doesn’t make sense at first.
It takes a moment, but I realize it is referencing the image that used to be there. It also adds nothing. I start to delete it.
It’s funny how much more ruthless I am editing posts that are several years old. Maybe if I left all my posts in draft for five or six years, I could get them down to the 500 words or so all the Big Blogs say you need to be successful.
Image gone. Pointless rambling gone . . . except . . . 18 month old. 18 month old? How old is this post? I scroll back to the top to look at the date and realize the 18 month old I just deleted from an old post about watermelon rind jelly had to be Mattias.
I couldn’t breathe.
A small, unimportant bit of rambling at the end of a post. But it was my little Mattias covered in watermelon seeds. A small little memory I had forgotten. Until I deleted it.
I opened the post up in a new tab. The original text and broken link were still there. It wasn’t gone forever, but I was seized by some inexplicable panic that I was somehow going to now delete it forever anyway. Because I almost did. So I copied the text, saved it to my computer, saved it to the post, closed the post and reopened the post in the editor and on the blog to make sure it was still there.
I held it together just long enough to make sure it wasn’t really gone.
And then I fell apart. Because it is the little, unexpected things that can take me back to that day. To holding him. To pacing outside the emergency room. To watching the doctors walk down the hall and knowing before they said anything at all. To losing him all over again.
Because in time, grief loosens its grip and allows itself to fade into the background. But it never completely goes away. I’m not even sure it loses its strength . . . because love never leaves nor weakens. It just waits. For heaven, if necessary.