Between Grief and Gratitude

Saturday afternoon.

Sitting on the patio as the temperature sours past eighty‑three‑degrees, idly wondering how to unplug my brain to relax.  Around me, birds are unusually busy.  There’s the sharp caw of a woodpecker, the measured, rhythmic call of a cardinal, and the steady “cheep-cheep-cheep” of yellow finches chirping.  It’s a blend of something akin to nature’s version of white noise.  I can hear my soft breathing now.

I find relaxation mode.

I’ve come outside to write.   My thoughts don’t settle easily.   They loop and they wander, tugged again and again toward memories of my deceased best friends, Tim and Paul.  Both friends died in early 2023, only 48-days apart.

Now, I drift in and out of sensory awareness.   Memories of my youngest sister and oldest brother fill the spaces between every other irregular heartbeat.  They passed away in the month of February, eight and seven years ago.

It’s the last day of February 2026, my birth month.  I’m adjusting, once again, to a truth which has become familiar but never entirely comfortable: I am the senior member of my family.  Yes, the fifth child is now the oldest survivor.  Of course I miss my siblings.  Time has helped me hold their lives in perspective – careful not to diminish them, but learn from them and, when I can, share what they gave me.

Among my longtime friends, I am one of a few who remains alive.  I carry our stories now – vivid moments and tender recollections of days when we laughed and cried or laughed until we cried.  Those memories stay close, ready to surface when invited.

I miss my friends.

It occurred to me that days as beautiful as this one are meant for doing exactly what I’m giving myself permission to do right now: to pause, to remember, and to honor all who’ve  shared their gifts with me.

Grief and gratitude.   A beautiful pair of words connected by love.   I now realize that my treasure chest is full.  I am fortunate.  I am thankful.

A long sigh escapes my chest.  Pent-up energy leaks quietly from the corners of my dark brown eyes.  No one is watching.  I lean back in the soft grey chair and gaze at the clear blue Arizona sky.

I have no plans for Sunday.