With Feathers

I don't pretend to know grief. Not because it hasn't touched my life; it has. In the last year, it has touched the lives of my family in a deep and profound way from which we are still reeling. In truth, a life not touched by grief doesn't really exist, but still--I don't pretend to know grief.

I don't pretend to know grief, because I have seen through the grief of my sister, through the grief of my nephew and niece, that grief cannot truly be known. 

To each of us, grief is different. For me, when my brother-in-law Ken died a year ago today, grief first manifested itself as anger. The anger has long since subsided, but in that moment, in the time of the longest year of our lives, the grief I knew was red and raging. 

Well-meaning people always try to understand another's grief. They try to define it. They try to compartmentalize it. They try to push it along. I was well-meaning. In my mind, I wanted my sister and her children to be healed immediately. I wanted them to go on about their lives without a ripple, without a pause. 

Watching my sister hurt was unbearable. It intensified my anger in such a way that was alarming, nearly overwhelming. I watched as she cried, as she held everything together for her kids. I watched as she searched for a place to put her grief, as she pointed her pain to rebuilding her life. 

Well-meaning, as I was, I hoped she'd heal. "Hope is the thing with feathers/ That perches in the soul," and the thing about hope is that it can fly away as easily as it lands. My hope that my sister will heal hasn't gone, but the reality of grief has finally dawned.

When feathers appear, angels are near.

A photo posted by Katie Ross (@katieross83) on Jan 23, 2017 at 7:53am PST

I don't know grief. None of us do. Oh, we may be intimately familiar with its ebbs and flows, with its phases and stages. With the bullet points and books and hollow words that attempt to explain it, to explain us to ourselves. But grief has many faces. It wears many masks. It speaks in tongues that our ears cannot hear and cannot know. 

My sister's grief is her own. I don't try to understand it. I don't try to define it. I don't hurry it along. I don't know what words will help, so I stick with an old stand-by that never says enough: I'm sorry.

And I am sorry. I'm sorry that I ever tried to know her grief. I'm sorry that her grief has become her constant companion. One that she faces bravely even on the hardest of days. 

Today is a hard day. I know it will be, but I can't know how hard. Only she and her children are living the reality of their tragedy, the daily weight of it that punishes and takes.

I watch them survive and thrive despite the pain. I watch her raise two of the most loving, intelligent children I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.   

But a life passed doesn't just disappear. It doesn't vanish. It doesn't end. 

Ken lives on. He lives on in so many ways. In Garrett's silly dances and songs, in his stubbornly huge heart that constantly watches over others. In Tessa's sweet giggles and sharp intelligence, in her perfect hugs and bright, smiling eyes. His children were his perfect gift. 

The grief we feel over Ken's passing is unique to each of us. We live through it every day. And yet, life does go on, even when you feel like it shouldn't. 

A year has passed, and it's been both achingly long and breathtakingly short. We miss you, Ken, and wish daily that instead of this unknowable, unbearable grief that, just for another moment, we had you. 

Number 7

The Famous Slide

“Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” I can still remember Skip Carey yelling those sweet words. I had been sprawled out on our living room floor, eyes glued to the television, tomahawk chopping the night away. I was nine-years old and had a pretty serious passion for baseball. As Skip yelled, I danced across the room, screaming and shouting for my Atlanta Braves.

Sid Bream sliding into home base on that fateful night in 1992 is one of those moments that just sticks with you.  Great baseball can deliver those moments, and there’s a new baseball team in my life now that I expect will deliver some awesome ones.

My nearly four-year old nephew Garrett started playing t-ball this year. He plays for a less famous Braves team and is the number 7. Naturally, I’m pretty excited that he wears Mickey Mantle’s number, and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s going to be the next Chipper Jones or perhaps Greg Maddox, ‘cause y’alll this boy can throw!

He had his first game over the weekend. Number 7, with a slightly too big uniform and face perpetually smudged with dirt or chocolate, covered first and third and hit a couple of line drives. He ran the bases like a pro and slid into home with a finesse that would make even Sid Bream jealous. Sliding into home and running the bases are his favorite moves, but his real talent lies in his hitting and throwing.

Naturally, I’m partial, but I’ve never seen a three-year old with a better arm than Garrett. I see baseball scholarships and major league pennants in his future. Of course, I won’t push; he’s got his entire future ahead of him, so if he decides to give up baseball and play the guitar instead, he’ll have his Aunt Katie’s undying support. But I do see a little natural talent in the way he tosses that ball.

Sunday afternoon was spent with a family game of baseball in the backyard. Mama and Daddy (Nana B and Papa to Garrett) set up a makeshift baseball diamond, complete with a chair as first base and terracotta planters as second and third. A busted up stick from an oak tree served as home plate.

Papa pitched, and Garrett was first up to bat. He connected on the first pitch, and the crowd went wild. He made it all the way to third, and the tone of the game was set.

We soon learned that baseball according to Garrett’s rules was a little different. The little smarty pants took full advantage of the chair base, sitting down every time he made it to first, and he gave a whole new meaning to the word switch hitter. If ever he swung and missed a pitch, he’d turn around and face the catcher, my husband Jeremy, and say “Now, you throw!” And the catcher would become the pitcher.

Despite some initial confusion over the chair base and switch hitting, it was easily the best baseball game I’ve ever played in or watched. I see big things in Number 7’s future.