Feather and Ash

We did it. We made it. And we even enjoyed Thanksgiving more than we might have thought possible. We were soft with one another and we were honest with one another and we made it. But maybe more than that, we were carried through it.  When our children are little, we lift them up so they can try to practice standing on our lap, strengthening their balance and little leg muscles. Or we hold their tiny hands as they learn to walk, supporting most of their weight while they concentrate on learning the motions. That is what it’s like. I feel like I am relearning the motions, building strength back in my living balance, while those around me bear most of my weight, preventing me from collapsing to the ground and making no progress at all.  Sometimes it is our family, taking special effort to visit or to make sure we are not alone on important days, who grieve along with us.  Sometimes it is our beloved surrogate children - Benjamin, Owen, Ruthie, Maya, Eric, Jancy, to name a few - who text,

This was always a special day for me and Jonah. Preparations would start days in advance. We would plan who was cooking what, we would go grocery shopping together, and the night before we would begin prepping our stuffing, making chex mix, and dialing into our joyous pregame energy. We just loved it all. The next morning we would be up early, tuck the turkey into the oven and savor one of our favorite rituals - the parade. Just me and him, jammies, coffee, blankets, and Al Roker. We would laugh and crack jokes and reminisce over memories from our time living near NYC when he was little. We would always take him to see the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular just after Thanksgiving and the first time we took him as a little boy, he was convinced the Rockettes I had described were really the Rockheads, and was disappointed when they didn’t *quite* live up to his 3 year old imagination. Every year we would chuckle as we watched them dance for us on TV.  After a walk and showers,

Not long after Jonah died, Christian had a dream. He watched helplessly as a train hurdled toward the church where he works and where all his numerous, carefully curated theological volumes now live on ordered shelves. The train smashed into the exact spot where his books were, leaving a flaming mass of paper and ash in its wake. His categories, the wisdom of thinkers long admired, instantly reduced to cinder. A devastation of ideas. The basis and bibliography of an earnest, thoughtful life’s work, no more.  That imaginary train may as well have run itself through the very center of our home, too.  Through the center of our vital organs. Through our brain, lungs, guts. We may as well have been on that train, our soft bodies hurling in space, smashing into metal, glass, and rail, passing through fire and smoke, coming to rest finally, stunned, broken, ears ringing with tears in our eyes.  Crawling from the wreckage, slowly, instinct taking over, because logic and reason aren’t reasonabl