This morning in the garden, it felt like I was with you, and I began to find my way again.
I have felt paralysed by the tenth anniversary of your death. I am an incomplete list of all the things I haven't done. Everything is still a mess, and I have not sorted things out. I want to start again. I want another chance.
I am always starting again, turning over a new leaf, making a fresh start. It is my way. I start, and then almost immediately, I want to start again. Grief has sharpened my nature.
Each year, in the days following your death, the garden you planted wakes up. My grief is seasonall. It has grown up with the garden, sleeping through the long, cold winter and getting new life in the spring. This year it has awoken to a new decade—a new mourning. I am starting the first year again.
I am thinking of you. It makes me happy.