Glitter

“Love doesn’t just disappear. It is like light. It keeps traveling.”
~ Matt Haig, The Life Impossible

My bracelet broke last night. It was one of those cheap silicone jobbies, on the surface nothing really. But I’d had that bracelet firmly attached to my wrist for 13 years. That’s more than half of the time that I’ve been in this house, married to this man, living this iteration of this lovely life.

In 2011, my brother and sister-in-law and our nephew moved up here to the Nexus, moved in right next door to us, just a quarter mile down the blacktop. Within a month of their move, my sister-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, and life took a tumble all around. We lost her two years later. The bracelet that snapped last night was the ‘No One Fights Alone’ bracelet that was gifted to me after her first big surgery in those early days.

While Karen was alive, that little silicone band reminded me that this was my battle too, that I had a part to play–somehow–even in the meagerest of ways. It was a gift that changed me, and that tied my life to Karen’s in ways I never would have imagined. We beat a path between our house and theirs in those days, all eighteen feet of our family, tromping to and fro more times per week than we could count. By the end I spent some part of almost every day with her, as easy as breathing. I never knew what to do, never knew how to show up for her and my brother, but that colorful band on my bracelet always reminded me to show up anyway. When she passed, I never could take it off.

A couple of years ago, I noticed that all that was left of the ‘inscription’ was a couple of o’s. Just that middle part of ‘No one;’ everything else had been rubbed smooth. It’s crazy, but I needed to take a picture of it before it was all worn away. I wondered then how many days it had left on my wrist. More than a decade in, it had grown almost to a superstition, my way of hanging on to Karen I guess. When I noticed it had almost completely faded, I missed her like crazy, a little like I was losing her all over again.

I’m thankful that it took this long for the lifeline to snap, for I think it took this long for me to learn that grieving is never really done, never really over. I think it took this long for me to know that the bracelet wasn’t the thing keeping Karen alive and present. I think it took this long for me to realize that I still get to spend some part of almost every day with her, as easy as breathing.

I’m grateful, too, for the reminder of the reminder.

To show up.

For very often showing up is all we need to do.

“God who knows sorrow…
Thank you for being a God who is moved to tears by death. For in doing so, you remind us that one can know healing is imminent and still make space to grieve what is. We’re reminded that hope and grief are not mutually exclusive.”
~ Cole Arthur Riley, Black Liturgies

As you trundle through life losing loves along the way,
as you cling to their memories and hold tight to the relics of their presence,
may you be gently assured that your grief has no timeline,
that your loss has no limits,
that your lament will not be rushed.
May you take consolation in taking your time.

But also…

May you one day find, in the ashes of your grief,
the still-warm embers of their eternal life in yours.
May you see the gentle truth
of the conservation of the energy of all things,
of the conservation of life,
of the conservation of love.
And may you remember, once and for all,
that grief is not the only thing with no end.

Glitter, a song of beautiful grief, by Patrick Droney

As for me, worry not… A few memorial picnics later, I have a lifetime supply of new and customized Karen bracelets. Seems like a good day to break one in. Cuz we can never have enough reminders.

Time to love louder, folks. Time to show up. No one fights alone.