On Tinkerbells, part 2

Today was a Tinkerbell Tuesday. School starts tomorrow, so this was The Teachers’, as three of us are known, farewell game of the summer. We wrapped ourselves in the tapestry woven of friends and family and generations, and we played cards.

If you saw me today, you might think I wasn’t happy to be there; I was a weepy mess off and on all afternoon. Part of the weepiness is the approaching anniversary of Cooper’s death and the “a year ago today, Cooper . . . ” loop that plays in my mind, but part is knowing my Tuesday safe haven — my weekly afternoon-long heart hug — will switch to a monthly game.

Still, the timing was perfect. Several Tinkerbells are Moms Who Know; all are compassionate. To be greeted with hugs, arm squeezes, eye contact, and knowing nods is to be greeted with love. With friendship. These Moms Who Know understand this dread lurking in my body and mind, dread for something that’s already happened. I don’t know what I should do on the anniversary, but it turns out they didn’t know what to do that first year, either. Their honesty and openness, their undiluted compassion, are salve to my soul. Maybe there isn’t one right way. Maybe I’m not falling short. Maybe this rising panic in my chest is just how you feel 51 weeks after your child dies.

Friends often remind me I’m not in this alone, but these tales across the kitchen table and wrenching retellings across card tables are concrete reminders of support and understanding. Today, four of us shared our stories — stories of husbands and sons and a grandson — across Table 3. Each story is different. Our sons died suddenly, unexpectedly, and both at 28. A grandson died in an accident, one husband after a long illness and another after a tender kiss goodnight. We shared our stories, our tears, our love.

Our group is an unlikely blend of histories, upbringings, social views, (mainly former) occupations, and ages, but it works. Each of us has something to contribute to the group, but each of us arrives with our emotional cup not quite full. We spend our afternoon filling each other’s cups. Today, my cup was nearly empty. To be honest, my cup is cracked and leaky; I cannot keep it full. These women know my leaks and pour anyway.

I’ll miss these Tuesday afternoons playing Hand and Foot, but will think back on our hours together and smile. I’ll probably cry, too, since that’s what I do right now. I’ll carry Tinkerbell wisdom into the new school year and into the second year of After. And when it’s time for our Friday night games, I’ll be there with my snack in one hand and my cracked and leaky cup in the other. Fill ‘er up, ladies. I love you all.