Day 70

March 11, 2021

49th anniversary of my Dad's passing

 

Jean and Peter Whiton 1953

There are two dates every year that I go into hiding, March 11th and Mother's Day.  I have lived with the woven blanket of grief since 1972 and I have learned on certain days you just have to take care of yourself and tend the scar.  I do that on this day.  This also marks one year that we have been in this pandemic and that my daily routines and all of my physical contact with my friends and family came to an end.  49 years since my Dad left us and a year since I've sat at my table at the Coop laughing with my crazy friends.  I have not touched a baby in a year or gone swimming with a child in my arms.  I am wrapped in grief today to honor it, to care for it and to call it by name.

I ate my lunch at Highland today.  The morning was cloudy, but lunchtime was sunny.  In some places the temperature went over 70.  The road was closed do to the mud so I parked alongside the gate and watched the birds: junco, nuthatch, chickadee, and titmouse.

At the rookery it was 67 and the red winged blackbirds were back with a force.  They were singing and talking and flying by.  Three dove came and said hello to me on the road right by the car.  

The clouds were rushing in by 530 so the sunset was inconsistent, but I drove around some just to get a look at it from different angles.  A few rain drops fell on the windshield and the temperature continued to drop.

Sorrow is a regular part of my life, but it does not push warmth, sweetness, or happiness away, it just stands with those others.  I am glad I have the breadth of feelings that I do, and I feel they all deserve naming, recognition, and honoring.  Today I honor sorrow, at the same time I count the return of the songbirds and I try to label all the colors of the horizon.

I love my father.  Tonight I can feel his arms around me.