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. 

Tessa Rose

I was gone to Starbucks when the news you were coming arrived. My phone, which had scarcely left my side for the last several weeks as I impatiently waited on news of you, was sitting on my desk; the text message announcing that you were on the way sat unseen and unread on my phone, an eagerly awaited message that would have to wait just a little longer.

When I returned to the office, iced coffee and bacon gouda breakfast sandwich in hand, I absently checked my phone and saw the message I’d been waiting to see for weeks. “Your new niece is on her way!”

The thirty or so minutes after that are largely a blur to me. There was a lot of squealing, a lot of dancing around, a lot of running from office to office to share the exciting news. I called my Mama (your BB) first, as she’s the one that sent the text, and then I called Jennifer, your Mama, to see how everything was.

You were definitely on the way, she said, and before she drove herself to the hospital, she was going to stop at a fast food restaurant to grab some fries, because naturally, she was hungry. Labor’s hard work. This is your Mama. She’s the strongest woman I know. When she went into labor with Garrett, your big brother, she insisted on doing a load of laundry before she left the house. She’s like Super Woman on steroids, and if you’re anything like her at all, you’ll be amazing.

After much celebration at work, your Uncle Jeremy arrived to whisk me away to meet you. We went home, fed the cats (your cousins), grabbed the camera, and away we went. For a good twenty minutes of the hour-long car ride, I squealed intermittently. You can ask Uncle Jeremy. I was pretty excited and pretty annoying. It was about 5:00 by the time we were on the road, and Atlanta traffic can be a nightmare. But not that day. That day everything was perfect.

We made it to the hospital in plenty of time. You were in no real hurry. Your Mama was patient and calm, and for awhile, we just hung out with her and your Daddy in the hospital room. They would only let in two of us at a time, so we took turns. Me, BB, and your Papa. I would say the three of us were equally excited to meet you; we’ll always be your biggest fans.

The waiting room was crowded at first. Families came and went. Babies were happily announced, hugs were shared, even a few tears were shed, and still, we waited.

By 10:00pm, the waiting room was just me, BB, Papa, and Uncle Jeremy. We were ready for you to arrive, and an electric current of anticipation was buzzing in the room, but there was also a strange sense of calm. When your big brother arrived, I don’t think any of us were calm, but with you, things were different. After meeting you, I realized calm was just part of who you were.

We finally did get to meet you at about 1:00am. You were, and still are, beautiful. Your Mama was beautiful, too. When we came in the hospital room to see you and her, she looked amazing. We kept asking how everything went, and she would just shrug. Easy peasy. I know very few women who shrug after labor. I told you your Mama’s pretty amazing.

I’ve held you and kissed you and cuddled you close. Soon, you’ll be a week old, but I loved you before you were even born.

Tessa Rose, I wish you a life of giggles and bare feet, of ponytails and sunshine. I can’t wait to know you even better, to play with you and kiss your boo-boos and be the best aunt in the world. You’re already the best niece.