Grievers Need Glimmers
Finding sparks of hope and love through the loss of my mother, Katherine King.
I've been thinking about impermanence, and death's universal reminders that life is a surprise of changes. Some of life's changes we'll appreciate, and many we most definitely will not.
Today marks one month since my mother's passing. Just over seven weeks since her life-altering event began. The passage of time is a funny thing. Sometimes it feels like a couple days since she died; sometimes a couple years.
A few days ago I asked my sister, "Isn't it ridiculous that a very small part of me thought Mom would always be around?"
"It is not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not." —Thích Nhất Hạnh
My mother lived eighty-nine years, several good years longer than a woman's average life expectancy of eighty. Because of that, her death itself wasn't necessarily a surprise. But the immediate, unexpected changes were a shock.
It's the shock, and the nonstop processing of events, the constant replaying of the timeline, the desiring of her presence that have overtaken my mental capacity and made it difficult to appreciate the everyday that continues around me.
Gradually, though, I've begun noticing tiny sparks of hope and love.
A few mornings ago, for the first time in weeks, I looked out my kitchen window and saw the sunrise . . . really noticed it, felt it deep in my soul.
That was the first recognizable glimmer.
The first time I noticed something outside of my pain.
The first in a lifeline.
Glimmers are, by nature, impermanent. Each shines unsteady and intermittent. Each one, though, casts just enough of a glow to see ahead until the next appears.
Such as the cards and messages you took the time to send. The phone calls you made. The attention you gave to my mother's funeral. The flowers and plants you had delivered to my home. The food you sent. The tea you invited me to share. The conversation and goodie bag of writing supplies you offered, helping me begin to feel creative again.
Strung together, these glimmers sustain me. They're reminders that I won't live in this difficult space forever.
I'm grateful for each one. I've needed each glimmer.

I keep thinking about the love my parents shared. Any of us who witnessed their connection over the years saw two lives lived side by side—neither ahead of the other—even when it was difficult or uncomfortable.
In my mother's final days, my father husbanded to the very end. I worried his remaining by her side might break him. Instead, I was fortunate to watch his fortitude and to catch glimmers of the permanent nature of their love. A love that will be passed through the generations. A love through which my mother will live on.
Sade: "By Your Side"