3 years

So. Three years. You know, the first year you spend reminding yourself to breathe in and breathe out. Reminding yourself to put one foot in front of the other. That you have these two little people depending on you to give them a semi-normal childhood and feel secure in a suddenly insecure world. You are numb. The second year you think you have a pretty good handle on things, but you don't realize that you are still numb. Until that day comes and you come screaming back to life complete with all that pain and grief you hid from the first year. I freaking hated September. A month I used to love. But this is year three. And year three has been easier. I am who I am and I will always be a woman who lost her husband when she was 38 years old with two small children to raise. People always say they don't want to remind me or bring up bad memories, but the fact is, you don't forget. That is my reality. And the changes I've had to make, have made me who I am. It's okay. And not all memories are bad. The hole in my heart is closing. It is no longer a gaping, bleeding, ragged edged bomb crater. It is now a small window. With protective glass and a tasteful window treatment. I like September again. I have been given a reason to like September again, and that makes me happy. That, I believe is the crux of the situation. I. Am. Happy.

I took the boys to the cemetery to leave flowers for their dad. The boys view the cemetery as a big park. And I can see why. It has a gorgeous view of Mt Ranier, fountains and lots of grass to play on. The fact that most of this grass is growing between headstones and site markers is no deterrent to these two. Even my cries of "Stop stepping on people!" fail to dissuade them for long. I'm not sure how long it will be before one of them falls in the pond. As I was cutting 6 dollars off the $12 bunch of wildflowers I bought, the boys were engaged in difficult and somber tasks. Tying the parachute onto SoS's plastic paratrooper.

My mother, bless her crazy, pea picking heart, showed up while we were there with her annual memorial. A Mylar Seattle Seahawks balloon which she proceeds to tie onto the flower vase so that it can wave in the wind and be seen by all and sundry. Now the cemetery is owned and run by a wonderful group of supportive people. But, we do live in a "certain area" and it is a little "too-too." They have a strict decoration policy, which excludes balloons of this nature, and which my mother gleefully violates several times a year. What are they gonna do? Evict him? Here is this year's contribution:









Okay, so it's hard to see. Sue me, I was using the camera phone. Trust me when I say it is a football shaped Mylar balloon in Seahawks colors with "Seattle Seahawks" printed on it. All in blissful violation of the decoration policy in the beautiful Northwest September sun. Take that!