I’m sure you thought by now that during this time nothing happy happened to me. And I would get why you say that. But on August 12, 2016 I married my childhood friend, Mark Reblin. It was a small ceremony with only about 50 in attendance. My daughter, Jessica, was my maid of honor and his brother, Joe, was his best man. It was, however, without a somber moment of remembrance of those that were not with us that day. My mom, of course, my dad, my grandmother, his mother (who was murdered in a robbery attempt while she was working in 1991), his brother Chuck (who died at the young age of 48) and his grandparents. His nephew, Mike, read a poem I wrote called A Blessing From Above. We rejoiced that day and were reminded of new beginnings.
New beginnings, or a new chapter, whichever you like to call it, entails moving forward while leaving something behind. I had mentioned before that this was the very reason why I do not like New Years. I’m usually moving into a new year without someone I love.
Getting married is a lovely new beginning. New dreams, goals, togetherness and blendedness.
However, even with all the happiness, there was a hole (well, many) that still hurt and that Mark could never fill nor did I expect him to.
Grief was hitting differently with another set of holidays coming. This time around, I would be going to my in-laws, whom I love dearly. I, of course, grew up with Joe as well and went to high school with Joe’s wife Mary, so I wasn’t going over to a stranger’s house. These people I’ve known for years. And I got to know their kids too. So what was the problem?
There was no discussion, like married couples have, over who’s house to go to. As odd as it may sound, it made me miss my mother just that much more. Mark doesn’t get a chance to experience Mom’s Thanksgiving dinner or her as a hostess. He doesn’t get to try her homemade pumpkin and apple pies. He doesn’t get to see her tree or village or train set at Christmas. He doesn’t get to see the joy on her face when you open a present from her. He doesn’t get to have a life with her. Granted he knew her when he was little, like I knew his mom when I was little, but oh how I would love to have some of his mom’s homemade pasta (she’s Italian and her parents came from Italy). I was even missing Chuck. I hadn’t seen Mark’s brother since I was 12 and was saddened to hear of his passing so young. Chuck’s son, Michael, looks so much like him that when I first met Michael, I couldn’t stop staring at him. (Great first impression, I know!)
I was beginning to learn that grief is everywhere. It’s all around me and it will eat me up if I let it. I was painfully aware that I was emotionally hoarding again. I wish I was a tea kettle with steam coming out my ears when I was overloading. It was a horribly heavy burden, this grief thing. And it was going to eat me alive if I didn’t get a grip on it.
Next week…Walking Alone
Until Next Time…
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