I let myself into Annie’s house after everyone had left. The planned spring break trip to LA for Tony and Luca was still on, no matter that half—more than half—the people they were going to visit had already been here a week earlier for Annie’s wake. The dog, the cat and the fish needed attention and I would provide it—as I always did when they went out of town. That first night, I just walked through the house, her house, letting the quiet settle my heart
I just now read this post. I am saddened by the loss of Annie, your beautiful daughter. I’m also in awe of the gift your writing offers to anyone grieving on how to approach this pain and honor the life shared rather than focusing solely on the loss.
So beautifully written, such a tribute to Annie and a testimony to a mother's unending love--and you are still giving to so many out of your broken heart. Love outlives loss, I know, but it hurts so damned much to let our "people" go from this life. It seems unfathomably unfair that our hearts are in a zillion shattered pieces, and yet we have to continue to do laundry and remember to use turn signals. Maybe it's those simple routines that help us cope, but it's so hard. Sending you so much love.
Your expression of love and pain is poignant. I can identify with each and every word. I live in a home without the man with whom I shared 43 years. Your beautiful Annie and the life you shared will live in your heart forever. It helps.
This is beautiful and touching and painful, all at the same time. I could feel the relief in you cleaning her house, going about ordinary life as though your life is still ordinary. I had to cry during the last couple of paragraphs. Perhaps you are right about traditional mourning. It made me think about how in some cultures, people will wear all black, maybe even a black veil, to signify their status. I always thought of that as a burden, but perhaps it is protection, shielding the wearer from expectations that they behave as though nothing has changed. Perhaps by sharing your grief and experience with us, we can take a tiny piece of that off your shoulders.
This is so beautifully painful. I remember the first time I left the house after losing my mom. A stranger casually said, “Hi. How are you?” And I awkwardly blurted out, “Well, my mom just died.” I understand that space in between, and I’m sending you all the love and strength to be there when you need to and to travel to the other side when you’re ready. Honoring you and your beautiful Annie this morning with the sunrise. XO
That feeling of nobody knowing your loss resonates so deeply. “Nobody look at me, but if you do look please see all of my grief laid out.” I will be thinking of you and of Annie and cherishing my loved ones. Thank you for your words ❤️
Dear Cindy, I’m so saddened that I heard after a week had passed, that you lost your beautiful daughter Annie. I wasn’t there to offer condolences in person, or even attend the last Saturday zoom meeting, that you so bravely organized, led, wrote and taught, as you always do, despite suffering such heartbreak. I have imagined that dealing with profound grief is somewhat like riding waves of the ocean as they meet the shore. Sometimes they are calm and rhythmic, and we can ride them. Memories can actually begin to comfort us. But other times there huge waves that crash out of nowhere, that sweep us off our feet. At those times it is impossible to find our direction, or stand strongly in resistance, or even open our eyes at all. Your essay “In The Mourning” is touching… and a beautiful tribute to your daughter. My heart goes out to you and yours. You are in my prayers. 💛
Your writing brings us all solace. I am holding you in such love as you go through this time. I know just what you mean in being astounded that you don’t have a neon arrow pointing to you with information about your huge loss. How can everyone not see?? Please take care of yourself and I think you are so smart to remember all the positive things about your lovely daughter. ❤️❤️❤️
As always, you’ve articulated this impeccably. I’m so impressed by your bravery. God, I wish is was nearer so we could chat. Around 37 years ago, on the card you sent to me to extend your condolences regarding the passing of my dad, you wrote that you hoped that I would soon begin to appreciate my precious memories rather than mourn the horrible loss. Your words brought me incredible comfort throughout the years. I wish I could offer you thoughts that could bring you comfort, and I feel utterly inadequate. Just know that you’re in my thoughts and I’m sending you lots of love.
I have been finding my way thru this loss day by day and in my own way learning how to honor Annie and the part of me that she has become all these years of being her stepdad. For the last few days I have found solace and direction in seeing more clearly how learning how to live without her in the world offers me the gift of learning how to live with a me that is closer to I truly am. A me that is in possession of a knowing that her absence makes unavoidable.
I just now read this post. I am saddened by the loss of Annie, your beautiful daughter. I’m also in awe of the gift your writing offers to anyone grieving on how to approach this pain and honor the life shared rather than focusing solely on the loss.
“lives in my heart. . .” - a lovely way to speak to remembering someone close to us whom we have lost.
Keep writing...
So beautifully written, such a tribute to Annie and a testimony to a mother's unending love--and you are still giving to so many out of your broken heart. Love outlives loss, I know, but it hurts so damned much to let our "people" go from this life. It seems unfathomably unfair that our hearts are in a zillion shattered pieces, and yet we have to continue to do laundry and remember to use turn signals. Maybe it's those simple routines that help us cope, but it's so hard. Sending you so much love.
Your expression of love and pain is poignant. I can identify with each and every word. I live in a home without the man with whom I shared 43 years. Your beautiful Annie and the life you shared will live in your heart forever. It helps.
This is beautiful and touching and painful, all at the same time. I could feel the relief in you cleaning her house, going about ordinary life as though your life is still ordinary. I had to cry during the last couple of paragraphs. Perhaps you are right about traditional mourning. It made me think about how in some cultures, people will wear all black, maybe even a black veil, to signify their status. I always thought of that as a burden, but perhaps it is protection, shielding the wearer from expectations that they behave as though nothing has changed. Perhaps by sharing your grief and experience with us, we can take a tiny piece of that off your shoulders.
Incredibly beautiful and incredibly sorry for your loss of amazing Annie.
This is so beautifully painful. I remember the first time I left the house after losing my mom. A stranger casually said, “Hi. How are you?” And I awkwardly blurted out, “Well, my mom just died.” I understand that space in between, and I’m sending you all the love and strength to be there when you need to and to travel to the other side when you’re ready. Honoring you and your beautiful Annie this morning with the sunrise. XO
That feeling of nobody knowing your loss resonates so deeply. “Nobody look at me, but if you do look please see all of my grief laid out.” I will be thinking of you and of Annie and cherishing my loved ones. Thank you for your words ❤️
So beautifully written.. I could feel your pain
Yes. Keep her safe in your heart. It is the only thing to do. Love you.
Dear Cindy, I’m so saddened that I heard after a week had passed, that you lost your beautiful daughter Annie. I wasn’t there to offer condolences in person, or even attend the last Saturday zoom meeting, that you so bravely organized, led, wrote and taught, as you always do, despite suffering such heartbreak. I have imagined that dealing with profound grief is somewhat like riding waves of the ocean as they meet the shore. Sometimes they are calm and rhythmic, and we can ride them. Memories can actually begin to comfort us. But other times there huge waves that crash out of nowhere, that sweep us off our feet. At those times it is impossible to find our direction, or stand strongly in resistance, or even open our eyes at all. Your essay “In The Mourning” is touching… and a beautiful tribute to your daughter. My heart goes out to you and yours. You are in my prayers. 💛
So beautifully expressed, Cindy. Still thinking of you and praying for you and your family often.
Your writing brings us all solace. I am holding you in such love as you go through this time. I know just what you mean in being astounded that you don’t have a neon arrow pointing to you with information about your huge loss. How can everyone not see?? Please take care of yourself and I think you are so smart to remember all the positive things about your lovely daughter. ❤️❤️❤️
As always, you’ve articulated this impeccably. I’m so impressed by your bravery. God, I wish is was nearer so we could chat. Around 37 years ago, on the card you sent to me to extend your condolences regarding the passing of my dad, you wrote that you hoped that I would soon begin to appreciate my precious memories rather than mourn the horrible loss. Your words brought me incredible comfort throughout the years. I wish I could offer you thoughts that could bring you comfort, and I feel utterly inadequate. Just know that you’re in my thoughts and I’m sending you lots of love.
I have been finding my way thru this loss day by day and in my own way learning how to honor Annie and the part of me that she has become all these years of being her stepdad. For the last few days I have found solace and direction in seeing more clearly how learning how to live without her in the world offers me the gift of learning how to live with a me that is closer to I truly am. A me that is in possession of a knowing that her absence makes unavoidable.