My 9-year-old grandson used his late mother’s sweaters to knit 100 Easter bunnies for sick children. When my new DIL threw them away, calling them “trash,” my son taught her a lesson.
I’ve lived long enough to understand that grief doesn’t go away when a person does. It stays silently, taking up residence in nooks and crannies, habits, and the gaps between sentences. It is waiting. It softens occasionally. It gets sharper occasionally. However, it never really goes away. My name is Ruth, and I saw that…