Yesterday, at the freeway off-ramp that leads to our neighborhood, I “saw” Joey. I saw his little, humble, hand-me-down oxidized green car with the surfboard rack on top, and through the windshield, I saw his wild curls atop his beautiful head.
Many years ago, I was on the other side of that intersection when I spotted him, his car pointed toward mine. My boy. He was exiting the 5, on his way home from an audition in Hollywood. He didn’t see me.
Now, whenever I pass through that intersection, I remember. I see him.
Last evening, as I was dropping honey onto a spoon hovering above my tea, I decided to bring the spoon to my lips instead. I savored the nectar as it lay on my tongue, then swallowed. In a flash, I saw my mom. As a child, I’d occasionally ask her for a spoonful of honey, and she’d feed it to me like a mama bird. It was a treat. I didn’t do it often, and I don’t know why I didn’t just sneak into the kitchen and help myself. If I could single-handedly find my hidden Christmas presents, unwrap them, and rewrap them every year, I could handle this honey-and-spoon operation. I just think this little bird liked being spoon-fed this golden, delicious love.
Reminders of those I’ve lost come: Every. Single. Day. Sometimes they make me cry, and sometimes it tastes like sweet honey on my tongue. Usually both.
The grief-literate say that grief doesn’t go away—you don’t move on, you don’t get past it, you don’t get over it… you learn to carry it. Often with a hitch in your git-along.
Someone I love recently lost someone they love. After the dominoes of death in my recent years, knowing someone is in grief hits differently now. Sure, I’ve sincerely wept with those who’ve wept, but now, the deeper awareness that someone I cherish is in immense pain that I cannot take away is profoundly humbling; the powerlessness is piercing.
But that intersection is covered in honey, and as you know, that amber syrup can heal.
Romans 12:15