Thursday marked one year since Craig’s mom, Linda’s, passing. On that day, the sky literally opened up. I was in New York City by myself – without an umbrella – when an unexpected rainstorm started pouring sheets. Nothing I was wearing was waterproof.
By the time I walked the blocks to my emergency MRI, the rain had soaked through my clothes to my skin, leaving me pruned and chilled. That’s when I got the call from Craig that his mom had passed, that he and his brother were with her when it happened. The skies were crying their own goodbyes.
This year, on that same day, the sky was a vivid, crystal blue and the sun was shining strongly, matching up to the strength of the winter-cold air. Everything smelt fresh, anew, a tangible sense of healing.
We spent many days clearing out Craig’s childhood home and setting it up for sale. On one of many trips between Harwinton and our home, we filled the car with items to keep. This time, we had both his parents in the back seat: his father in the mantle clock he had rested in for the past seven years, his mother packed within a thin cardboard box, nestled inside a nondescript gray paper-handled bag.
Together they rested, wedged between a steel popover pan and a food processor, its bag of attachments spilling onto the seat when we hit the first bump. Watching them teetering at each turn, supported by such mundane objects, I wondered, how can life be so wildly complicated and so achingly simple all at once?