The Sign

I remember the old wooden box

Its tarnished screen inlaid on top

That coveted elusive box

Such hallowed metal inside

 

Shimmering on the dresser, breathless, unopened

Ali Baba’s cave

Opened by magic

No one’s rightful treasure

 

Yet I heard stories whispered and shamed

The upstaged engagement ring

Guilt necklace bought in a rush

A silver bracelet from the cantina

 

Those jewels I secreted and wore

My own stories, invented

Though you always knew

It was your box after all

 

Now there’s another box

The same metaled memories in cardboard

But the ring, the guilt, the cantina

Still yours

 

And I’d give anything to put it back

Leave the box to rest on your dresser

To close the cave

And listen to your stories

 

Why does YouTube always put the most rubber-faced, funhouse-mirrory frame at the beginning of every video?

 

I started this video again and again, tried to make it flow, attempted to sound more polished, took a shot at not doing that “thing” with my eyes, but I finally let it go. Given that this video is about receiving signs from our loved ones, I took the fact that my Flip ran out of juice and fell flat several times may mean my mom didn’t want me to share what I did. So I almost stopped. And then I kept on. So maybe it was a sign.

 

I’ve found that with some people who’ve suffered loss – myself among them – that the emotion is so heavy and oppressive that we keep it in lest we burden someone with our grief. Who wants to hear that I held my mom’s hand as she died? Who wants to know that after she passed away, I crawled into bed with her because I wasn’t ready for her to leave? That’s a lot to give someone, so I don’t say it. I never say it.

 

But it needs to be said. Even to myself in a room where I’m alone and whether there are ears to listen or not. This is what this video is for me.

 

I hope, I hope, that if you are missing someone you love this year, or any year, that you feel in your smallest bones you’re not alone. And that this time of year especially is so damn hard and it never feels like it used to and it’s OK to say that out loud.

 

This video is part of an effort named “Hugs for the Holidays,” which gives everyone and anyone who is grieving a loss some ears and hearts and hands behind you to hold you up. Please don’t grieve alone. I’m here. I want to know how you cry at night or how you imagine hugging someone who is no longer with you or how you run away or how you numb or how you do what you do.

 

And what who you loved meant to you.

 

Today there are link-ups (below) where you can comment and/or link up a post you have written about your loss — of a son, a daughter, a spouse, a father, a sister; of a brother or a friend or someone you loved so much your grief will always yell into the vast distance, always echoing, always echoing.

 

 

You can share anything you want about your loss: a link to a Facebook photo/post, a blog post about a particular memory, a Pinterest pin sharing how you cope, whatever you would like others to read or see. If you are not a blogger, you can write your memory in the comments of the blog.

 

On each blog listed below, you can read individual stories of loss and share your own story.

 

Meanwhile: keep going. You have so much soul love behind and in front of you.

 

If you have had a miscarriage, stillbirth or lost an infant link here: fourplusanangel.com

If you have lost your mom, link below!

Your dad, link here: mamamaryshow.com or deaddadsclub.com

Your sibling, link here: myinnerchick.com

A child, link here: aninchofgray.blogspot.com

Your spouse, link here: g*funk*ified

A friend, link here: kimtracyprince.com

 

There is also a special #HugsfortheHolidays Pinterest board with information for dealing with grief, and inspiration to help ease the pain during this season. Share your story.

 

 

Tell me. I'm listening.

 

(For days upon more days, I've cried about Newtown. There's enough people writing about it, I don't need to be another than to say I would gladly take the grief from each and every one of the moms and dads who lost their children, and from the sons and daughters and husbands who lost their mothers and friends and wives, and I'd carry it around for every day, if those killed could be here again.)