The sun was shining on my most recent Sabbath, which for me is always a Friday. I had a quiet morning, during which I made myself a coffee and decided to sit in the backyard. There is a fountain next door, so I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of running water. A bee leisurely buzzed around me, a squirrel scampered by, and what at least sounded like an owl offered a “hoot”. I had brought out a book, which my hand rested on. As I took a sip of my drink and went to read, I was struck by a vivid memory of my mom sitting on the dock in Killarney, the place where her parents built a cottage though we always called it the “camp”. She loved to sit and read for hours, listening to the waves. 

I began to cry.

My mom moved from the dock to the chair beside me. I could imagine her enjoying the same sounds as she sat with a coffee (always strong and black) and a selection of short stories. I looked up and suddenly pictured my dad walking toward the backyard, likely having gone to the corner store for the one thing I was missing for our meal. He liked to do that. I realize how I often think of my mom as sitting and my dad as walking. I make a mental note of that to reflect on another time.

My tears gathered momentum at this point. I was now surfing the wave of grief. 

I was then joined by Rick Tobias. Rick spent a lot of time in the backyard, especially over the last few years. He would make the slow walk down the driveway with his cane, a cooler of ice and coke zero, a bottle of scotch, and a couple of his prized glasses from Iona. In fact, it was at this time last year that we had our last little gathering before Rick’s death on May 18^th. But on this sunny day, Rick was back. I could almost hear his greeting and the sigh as he settled into a chair. 

I find that once I’m fully engaged in a moment like this, it is easy to begin picturing even more of the people I now miss. While that might sound overwhelming (and yes, it can be), on this particular day it was not. Everyone looked happy and relaxed, dare I say, whole. And I got to remain in my seat and welcome them all to the party.

I looked up at the blue sky with my tear stained face and began to take some slow, deep breaths. I prayed out loud. I finally finished my coffee and noticed that my book had fallen from my lap to the grass. The flood of memories stilled itself. I agree with CS Lewis who said, “Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.” While I might wish for grief to be a linear journey, it is not. It ebbs and flows, and sometimes includes visitors on a sunny Sabbath day.