Grief sounds like Joni Mitchell in my head.

As with the birth of a child, the year that commences just after a loved ones death is marked with firsts. But instead of first bath’s and first words, first steps and first birthdays, it’s marked with first absences during traditions and holidays throughout the year. The gap left in their absence can feel larger than their presence ever did. Perhaps that’s what Joni Mitchell meant when she sang, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone…”. That was one of my mom’s favorite songs and I can still hear her singing it in my memories.

In those moments when she was singing for no one, or mindlessly walking through the house picking up the mess that a family of four and a home-daycare can create, I took no notice. Perhaps I was annoyed because she stood in between the television and my seat; or its possible that her singing wasn’t as crystal clear as Joni Mitchell, but when someone leaves you, be it through a death or another type of parting, it’s those little things that feel like lumps in your throat. It’s the fact that you won’t hear those off key songs anymore, or see her chuckle when she knows she’s annoying her teenage daughter. It’s the little things that we don’t pay attention to while they’re here with us that we miss the most.

March 4th, 2020 marked the 12th year since my mom passed, and the first time I’ve celebrated this “gnome day,” without either of my parents. It almost passed without my awareness. Life seems to turn busy these days and with so many distractions and near-calamities taking over conversations, it wasn’t until the reminder showed up on my dad’s iPad that I remembered. Seems ironic that the very device that I believe has caused such unnecessary global drama would be the same tool that reminded me of this intimate moment.

I don’t entirely know why this seems more prominent today than in previous years. My mom has been passed for over a decade, but it’s one of those firsts. It’s the first anniversary of a shared grief without my dad to share it with. I don’t have him to lean on, or to be in his company as we miss her together. There’s no one to buy blue flowers for, or cook a special meal for, and no one to cry on the phone to. No one left who can recall those subtle and intimate memories of my childhood home with. It’s one of those first-year firsts that meet us when we arrive in the world, and provide some bittersweet comfort when those we love leave this world.

It’s good to remember. It’s good to cry. It’s good to know that even with the tears that this year of firsts will bring, I have them because of our partings, and more importantly I have them because of the little mundane things of life that we shared.

Meaning is so often found in those little moments that we never thought were important. In the end, if we can remember to pay attention, they leave us feeling loved across time and space, never truly alone.

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