Clarity

I am not thinking clearly. Again. Still. I soak the crockpot in the sink while it is turned off, but still plugged in. It stays that way for a day before I remember I was interrupted when I was cleaning the kitchen. I am horrified when I see what I have done. I rescue the crockpot, dry it off, but instead of unplugging it, as I intend, I turn in on. With nothing in it. And it is another day before I realize this second error.

I have two very near car accidents in a single hour. Thank goodness the other drivers were alert; both accidents would have been my fault. And bad. Very bad. Both would have resulted in a lot of banged up people and metal. I leave my house to go to the store and leave the door wide open. I forget to eat and realize it a day later when I am overcome with weakness.

Colby would have cautioned me to "chill," to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention. He would have said to "get a grip," watch out, breathe. The problem is, I already think I am doing those things. I consult my grief support group to find those parents (moms mostly) who are a few months or years ahead of me in this process, have all experienced periods of this forgetfulness, this time of bad decisions, poor actions. "Be kind to yourself," one writes. "Don't try to do so much," writes another. "None of us can do all we did before." All say it is between years 2 and 3 when things ease, get a little better. I am 12 weeks into this. I have a long, long way to go.

Ancestors

I had been researching our geneology as a present for Colby's birthday. Throughout this year, I had been giving Colby bits and pieces of the people, the story, and had planned to surprise him with a book of all the collected research on his birthday. Each month, if I hadn't already given him a bit of information, he'd ask about it and when Colby passed, I found all the printouts I had given him wrapped in plastic in his backpack.

Our story is a good one of farmers, warriors, masons, and thieves. Love and loss, heartbreak and triumph. Ocean crossings, Indian fights, potato blight, sod houses, and miles upon miles riding in covered wagons. Ancestors came mostly from Ireland, Poland, Russia, Austria, and Germany. Some belonged to the Royal families of Europe; others were brothers, sisters or parents of Catholic saints. Yet others were maids, sheepherders, and seamstresses. All were real people. Each, like Colby, left his or her mark upon the world.

Colby would have turned 24 two weeks from tomorrow. My research sits, untouched, since the day he passed. I will return to it someday, maybe even someday soon, for as I look at my great-grandfather's baby picture, and my great-great grandparent's wedding photo, I realize that I do not want them to be forgotten. So (eventually) I will continue the research, I will tell their stories and let the world know they were part of it.

This is important not only because of the story that is there, but because I am interested in telling it. For the first time since Colby passed, I am interested, although somewhat vaguely, in something. For the first time rather than going through the motions of what has to be done, I am actually interested in doing something. And that, I think, is a very good thing.