Usually, writing happens organically. A thought or story or phrase I can’t get out of my mind evolves into paragraphs that make sense or a photo begs me to tell a story. Words take on a life of their own.
Not this week. This week, I’ve started and deleted several posts. Oh, I’ve written. I’ve filled page after page in a journal, but the words on those pages are often angry and frustrated. Defensive. On those pages, I let it fly. Those pages are not fit for public consumption.
This week’s pages are different, filled with wishes that can’t come true. Wishes for something, anything, to be simple and normal.
“Simple” and “normal” aren’t part of my life. Everything has changed; “simple” and “normal” didn’t make the cut, but a girl can wish.
Of course I wish I could go back in time, help Cooper, keep Cooper alive, but I know that can’t happen. I try every minute of every day to come to terms with his death. That he died. How he died. Cooper’s death is THE BIG ONE. No surprise there. The surprises come in all the ways “simple” and “normal” no longer exist, in all the wishes that can’t come true.
I wish I could say “the boys” or “the kids,” but those labels are defunct. “The boys” means Logan and Cooper or Logan, Cooper, and Nolan, depending on the setting. “The kids” means Logan, Cooper, and Cassidy or Logan, Cooper, Cassidy, Nolan, and Madeline. All or none. My lexicon changed.
I wish I could look at a picture of Logan and Cassidy together—my two favorite living people—and just enjoy the picture of those terrific humans without also thinking the picture is only 2/3 complete. I wish the thought of taking family photos didn’t make me want to vomit, but that knot in my stomach is real. The pain buried behind my breastbone is real.
I wish I could look forward to Mother’s Day and spending time with whatever family can gather. Part of that wish is already true; I want to spend time with family and fuss over my mom. I, however, am a broken mom. Even though I love Logan and Cass with every bit of me, I dread Mother’s Day this year.
I wish I could walk the timber without tears, just enjoy the time outdoors and appreciate nature. I’ve tried. Every time we’ve gone mushrooming, I’ve tried. Every time, I’ve failed. Maybe next year spring will be easier, closer to my remembered normal. This year, nothing is normal.
I wish grief weren’t so exhausting and devious. Grieving while trying to pass as a functional adult (who happens to teach during a pandemic) leaves me bone-weary at the end of each day and insomnia only compounds the fatigue. Life itself is exhausting.
I wish our culture weren’t so messed up about grief. I wish I didn’t have to consider the audience before I talk about Coop, but these eight months have opened my eyes to who can face this raw and ugly truth without squirming or bolting.
I wish those who can handle my reality, who meet me where I am and accept my brokenness, could know how I treasure them.
My journal holds pages of wishes— wishes for simpler days, normal times. I wish so many things, but each of these wishes is tied to a frayed string. I can knot some strings, hold tight to some wishes; other strings will slip through my fingers and the wishes will be gone. I wish I knew the difference.
Woods Writes 