Earlier, I was thinking about how the grief is evolving, how we are learning how to live our lives with the sadness, how it is ingrained in us. It is a part of our being. Our family unit. I thought about how I am able to get through a day without crying. How, in a moment, I can be happy. In a moment, I can feel like I can do this – even if I do not want to have to. In a moment, I can breathe. I can live. I can see through the fog. In a moment.
And then the next moment comes. I haven’t asked for it. Relatively speaking, I felt fine. I was managing. I was going to go out for a walk in the autumn sunshine, to breathe in the crisp air and listen to the crunch of the leaves under my feet. Perhaps even catch a glimpse of one of the last floatplanes of the year overhead.
Instead, I see an innocent Instagram post from our favourite ice cream makers announcing the return of a seasonal flavour. Pumpkin Pie. A flavour that, this time last year I was so excited about. A flavour that reminds me of a sweet memory of Owen’s last week in the tum.
It was a rainy October evening in Vancouver. 39 weeks pregnant. Post-midwife appointment, we grabbed a container of Pumpkin Pie ice cream and two spoons from a cafe across the street from the hospital Owen would be born at. The rain came. Together, we stood under an awning and ate spoonfuls of delicious ice cream. The pitter-patter forming puddles all around us, smiles across our faces, a happy little boy in the tum – we made this memory as a family.
It is memories like this that we cherish. They make us smile and rejoice that we made the most of the gift of time. However, it is in this moment, I long to be back in that moment. In a moment, everything can change. With warm eyes and salty cheeks, I yearn.