Nov. 15, 2008

It was just a piece of trash, blown to the curb by our midwestern winds. Just lying there by the mailbox, an innocent piece of trash. No one else would have paid attention to it. But as I glanced down I felt like I was in one of those movies where the character has flashes of the past coming one after the other. It left me breathless and aching, this piece of trash.

Images of Paul flashed through my mind, one after the other, and that familiar "I can't believe he's really dead, how can it be?" hit me, and tears sprang to my eyes. I had to stop where I was and stare at that piece of trash, that crumpled, faded, empty box of Marlboro cigarettes.

I've learned to embrace those moments, those "grief bursts"; have learned to stop and FEEL the pain and aching loss and disbelief. To savor whatever memories come, to remember, to hurt, to cry.

At the end of the driveway, the wind whipping around me, tears running down my face, I looked down at a piece of trash and remembered my boy.