What surprised me most was that my grief wasn’t fresh. This was going to be the second Thanksgiving without her. I thought maybe by now the sharp edges would have softened. But grief doesn’t keep to a timetable. It slips in quietly, disguised as an everyday object in a store aisle, and reminds you of all the ways love lingers.
Grief often comes like that, unexpected and ordinary. Even after time has passed, I still find myself caught off guard. It can be a song on the radio, a familiar smell in the air, or even a phrase someone says that sounds just like her. Sometimes it feels like a lump in my throat. Other times it comes out in my own sharp tone (as the magnet on my refrigerator says, “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out”). Sometimes it’s laughter I didn’t expect—usually at inappropriate times —and sometimes it’s a wave of tears over something as simple as a box.
That day in the store, I bought the boxes. I didn’t need to—just seeing them was enough to remind me that her presence lingers, even in the aisles of a store, even in the smallest details of life. But I wanted my family to be able to take a part of the day home with them, just as she always did. Maybe it was my way of honoring her, or maybe it was a quiet hope that if this Thanksgiving were anyone’s last, they too would have something to hold onto. Someday, they may find themselves in my place, stopped by an ordinary object that suddenly feels like everything. And maybe that’s what grief really is: the heart’s way of saying, I still carry you with me.