They mean well, of course,
the people who say things
such as, The holidays are hard.
And they’re right. Like not hanging
the blue stocking on the fireplace.
Like not needing to hide the red hots
because there is no one who will steal them.
But these moments are no more difficult
than a Tuesday. No more heartbreaking
than two weeks ago when
my son did not chastise me
for not clicking my heels
before I pulled my snowy feet into the car.
Firsts are hard, people say.
But, sometimes, I notice,
it’s the second that’s harder.
Or the third. Or it’s just all hard.
Or, miraculously, it’s not hard at all.
I am learning to translate
anything anyone says as,
I am holding your heart in mine.
I am learning to meet every day
as a holy day full of sacrifice,
grace and invitation. I am learning
grief is so different for each of us—
sometimes showing up as closed sign
at the door of the inn. Sometimes
showing up as an angel with a message
we can barely understand. Sometimes
showing up as a king with a strange
and fragrant gift reminiscent of sorrowing,
sighing—though it’s woody and warm,
and feels important, perhaps, even wondrous.