This post is a snapshot of what grief looks like on our parents. It has been 400 days since we lost my sister. I didn’t set out to commemorate the specific day, but it worked out that way when I sat down to write.
Our father’s grief is quiet, subdued. His phone wallpaper is a rotating set of photos of my sister. He’s found ways to craft symbols of my sister into his hobbies and onto his vehicles. He is characteristically reticent to speak of his emotions, but the cloud of sadness that passes over him at times speaks for itself. I sometimes wonder if he has places he goes to break down, because since the day we said goodbye to her body, I have not seen him cry. I could not tell you with any amount of certainty whether he is “okay.”
Our mother’s grief is grasping and still raw. My parents are nearly drowning in photos and objects both of and from my sister, all of which my mom has been amassing. Hundreds of photos, no matter where you stand in the home. My parents always had a decent number of photos around, but the contrast is striking now. My mom also has only just barely begun to consider the possibility of not holding onto every one of my sister’s worldly possessions, but right now my sister’s childhood bedroom is a shrine to all that she once had.
Both of my parents look older. Far older than 400 days should have worn on them. They have only just begun to figure out what their future and retirement looks like, because my sister’s death absolutely imploded the prior plan. They slowly seem more stable in many ways, but the sadness and sense of meaninglessness still hangs heavy in the air. That said, they’ve started making plans for their future again. Spending time with friends. Slowly stepping back out into the world after a year of mostly being cloistered away. I was allowed to take away two bags of my sister’s things that no one had strong memories or attachments to.
It took only seconds for our old reality to crumble, to burn to the ground. Sometime during these 400 days, a tiny sprout of something resembling a new life also began to grow.
Unmoored Sister 