Today is going to be full of raw moments. Lump-in-your-throat, tears-hot-to-fall, somebody-give-me-a-hug moments. 

I recently made schedule cards for my son, to give more predictability to our days. (In my opinion, they are already mind-numbingly predictable, but hey, that’s just me.) I added a card for when overnight visitors arrive, because he often wants to know WHAT TIME THAT GUY IS COMING. But my parents were leaving today after spending a week with us, so I decided to use it to note their departure. 
After we waved to the receding Prado, I came down to cook breakfast and noticed he’d flipped it over as done. ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘He’s processing it.’ Then as I added oats and water, I noticed he was standing next to the table, holding it, staring at the small photo of a rolling suitcase. 

And cleaning up breakfast, I found it like this. 

Oh, that grief was a straight line. 

Marilyn Gardner says it well: “Grieving well means understanding that it is not well-organized and the more I can accept that, the less surprised I will be when it comes on like a tsunami in the most unlikely places” (Between Worlds, 124). 

So we’re playing with lavender play dough today, and waiting a while until we throw out their half-drunk cups of coffee and tea. We’re not stripping the bed yet. We’re going into the guest room with deep sighs. We’re giving extra hugs and grace for tantrums over nothing. 

We’re lingering in the fading aura of the presence of family. We’re in no hurry to leave it. 

You’ve got this, mamas.