Strings

I can feel a year ago in my skin because it insists on holding in the chill. I carry the feverishly warm skin of the dying in the archives of my fingertips and yet for that very reason,

I can’t seem to get warm. ⁣

One year. Almost. One year since the Missing moved in and took the place of my mother-in-law. ⁣

⁣“The first year is the hardest.” ⁣

Lord, let it be so.⁣

⁣What a difference a year can make. It makes all the difference and yet not all has changed. ⁣

⁣Grief is still the ruthless puppeteer, yanking on our strings—These beautiful strings made of piano tunes, jack-o-lantern smiles, and gingerbread houses. Strings we wish we were free from, but also are grateful for because they tether us to what had been. ⁣

⁣Rest assured, I’ve felt healing this year too. It’s the kind of healing that begins with a Surgeon’s hands. It comes through cutting and drilling and rooting out only to be stitched back up with—these strings. ⁣

Someday we will point at our scars and tell the story.

⁣But right now my skin is still thawing from last January. When the Missing approached and had its way with my little family’s world. ⁣

⁣In those days, frozen in place, I wondered if I could crawl into my very literal fireplace and finally be warm. ⁣

⁣The gentle whisper of the promise I was given as a child through familiar tissue paper pages reverberates—a broken record in my mind.⁣

⁣“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥.”⁣

⁣Yes, but will I ever be warm again? ⁣

So let me ride out these waves of grief by the fire and listen to the “𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵” of my childhood. Let the flames dance in my eyes even as the Missing moves my limbs. ⁣

I know from past experience, the strings will slacken with time and intention. ⁣

And though I will eventually thaw, we will never not miss. ⁣

We will always be missing someone, something, somewhere—⁣

⁣and some𝘩𝘰𝘸 we learn to navigate this web of strings. ⁣

⁣Some𝘩𝘰𝘸 these sacred tethers draw us ever closer to hope and healing. ⁣

And then spring will come.