It’s a rainy Sunday morning in April. My wife is driving down to the City to meet her daughter
who flew in to take her mom to lunch and a show. We celebrated on Friday, her actual birthday –
pancake breakfast in bed, followed by a leisurely day with our puppy, Milo, and capped off with a
romantic dinner at The Blue Heron Restaurant.
Somewhat reluctantly, I turned on the gas stove in the dining room in an effort to temper this
morning’s damp, chilly April air. I’m sitting up on our daybed on the porch now, my computer perched
on my lap.All I can hear is the steady patter of rain on the porch roof, an occasional flutter of ducks
fishing out on the river, and a contented sigh from Milo lying by my side. Suddenly I catch a whir of
red brushing across the porch window – a cardinal has sent his blessing for a sweet day at home.
But spring never comes easily, does it? And April is a complicated month. One day it’s chilly
and cold, and the next day I’m flinging open the windows, ushering a seductively enticing summer
breeze into our tight, stuffy, stubborn wintry house. One week, I’m happily anticipating a day trip in my
kayak and planning my sweetheart’s birthday. A week later, I’ll be meeting my kids at Wildwood
Cemetery where my first wife is buried. It will be six years since she left us.
I was once reminded by a grieving mom that unlike her, at least I can fall in love again. “I know
you’re not replacing your wife,” she told me, “yet you can have that familiar feeling again that I’ve lost
forever.” Maybe my kids feel that way, too. They don’t get to have another Mom, nor would they want
another. But perhaps the emptiness they feel doesn’t always sit well beside my new found happiness. I
believe that’s worth bearing in mind.
Grief is persistent. And life is persistent, too. So often both are hard as nails, and yet at times
they’re touched with kindness and love. I am fortunate to have found true love again. I am also
fortunate to have my kids who loved their mom as hard as I did, and who miss her like crazy the way I
still do. And so our lives continue.