Work, Life, and Unfinished Grief: 9 years and counting

The first days of February were erratic, veering from sixty-degree-sunny skies to persistent, freezing rain. 

There is something fitting to the unpredictable weather.  On February 15, Mercy Joan (my daughter) would have been nine years old.  Our family steps into another year without her.

Like February, I skitter across emotions.  There are golden moments of joy:  giggled secrets with Moses and homemade art projects from Jemima.    

I still respond to e-mails, show up at networking events, and make connections over coffee.  I cheer at indoor soccer games, perched atop ancient bleachers, and I pitch potatoes into the Instant Pot for dinner. 

But I am distractible, pensive, and often sad.  I tilt towards melancholy music, crawl into bed early, and peck away my reflections to an unfeeling laptop.

February feels unfinished.  An abrupt, unexplainable end at 28 days.  It perches awkwardly; evading closure.  There is only enduring the ill-fitting days and a release to the rhythm of months that seem to make sense.