The problem with puddles

On the 2 year anniversary of your passing, I packed up my softest blanket, my silver journal, and my brightest memories of us, and after dropping Ethan off at summer camp, I went for a lake visit at the Cove. The sky was heaven blue with small wispy and puffy clouds just like you like, the kind that morph and fold into zoo animals and mythical creatures. This day preceded the blue moon, and had the feel of a rich autumn sunrise without the chill, but also without the typical July suffocation. Before jumping into my thoughts or frantically scribbling in my journal, I held the moment. I breathed in the water, the sparking dewdrops clinging to the grass, the leaves weighted down in morning moisture, almost floating on the lake’s surface.

That is when I felt you. The comfort of peace, like the moment when you’re trying to stay awake but finally surrender to sleep’s blissful coma. That numbness that only true contentment can grant us here on Earth. The closest I come to feeling what you no longer do, but almost can. And it was beautiful. It was a connection. It felt like your embrace. I thought, ‘this was what it felt like to be an infant in your arms’. The safety and serenity were immeasurable in that moment.

I remembered all of our summers on that lake and up in Lakes of the Four Seasons. I remembered grandpa spending a full day on the boat with us trying desparately to teach me to ski. It took 8 hours, but I’ve never lost it! We thought our time was as long and wide as expansive as the sea when really it was smaller than this lake. Our time together was just a small puddle; tiny and temporary, but it reveals itself every time the rains come, because there’s truly no forgetting who we loved, how we lived our days, and why we loved them as much as we did. And I love you mom. Then. Now. Forever and a day.


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