Harmony

April 14, 2025 / Lisa / 2 Comments

I only knew a small part of Harmony. I didn’t know him as a child when he answered to a different name and hadn’t found his true one yet. I didn’t know him as a teenager or young man or before he lost his short-term memory.

I only knew him as the person who came into my sister’s life and never left.

He was the one who apologized when I first met him, telling me he wouldn’t remember me the next time we met. But that eventually, when I had been in his life long enough, I would enter his long-term memory. That was a wonderful day. It felt like becoming family.

I didn’t know Harmony as a father, and have only recently met his sons. But I knew him as the music in my sister’s life.

She and I would be visiting, non-stop sister words and laughter and stories. Harmony would pull out a guitar or dulcimer and there would be soft music flowing behind our stories.

I knew Harmony as a person of giving. But like his music, softly, unobtrusive, in the background. When a visit was over and I’d go to the car, there would be a little paper bag of homemade soap tucked between the seats. Once there was a box of apricots. And of course there was the repurposed cardboard orange juice container with soil and worms for my fledgling compost bin, inspired by his.

I knew Harmony as a reader, a storyteller, a person who could talk about experiences hitchhiking across the United States (twice), about world religions, about music, about books, about peace, and of course, about harmony and balance.

I only saw him angry once. And that was towards the end of the story – or maybe the beginning – when he was mad at himself and blaming himself for what my sister was going to face in the weeks and months ahead as his transition began.

The same thing those of us who knew him face today. The loss of music. The loss of stories. And most of all, the loss of Harmony. I hope one day we’ll meet again out there somewhere and hear his music. And I hope he’ll remember me. It will feel like family.

Grief and Time

April 7, 2021 / Lisa / 8 Comments

This month Sam Grafton’s family will mark his 30th birthday. Three years have passed since he left us.

Three years. That’s such a strange thing to wrap my head around. In some ways it was just yesterday when the call came, and in other ways it’s been an eternity since his family’s world was shattered into billions of bright, sharp points of heartbreak.

In some ways it was just last week that he was a baby rocked in the arms of a friend at the edge of the river.

It was just yesterday that he sat on his mom’s lap and turned his face from me when I was trying to practice doing an evaluation on a toddler.

It was just a few minutes ago when my husband took him in a raft down the Wenatchee River. It was just an hour ago that he and I talked about the test for his driver’s license.

How does life go by so fast? Everyone tells you to treasure the time you have, but we of course don’t. We get caught up in day-to-day work and chores and responsibilities. We get impatient and frustrated and irritable…and then the time is gone. And then the person is gone.

It takes conscious effort to slow down and remember to value those around us. And in the meantime, the whirlwind of time flies by.

Three years.

Compared to life on this planet, that’s not even a miniscule particle.

Compared to being without someone, it’s an eternity.

So.

1,095 days without Sam in our lives. 26,280 hours since all those tiny candle flames lit up the bridge over the river so his spirit could find his way home in the mountain dark.

I wish I could shape time for those I love, those he left behind. Speed it up or slow it down, or simply ease its passage. But like the river that took Sam, time keeps just flowing around us and we are powerless in its current.

For his mother, who swims those currents, I hope that river holds you in its flow and that you find beauty in its depths and healing in its passage.

Wherever you are, Sam, it’s the time we mark your birth, your arrival into our lives. No matter how much time passes, we are grateful for the years the universe granted us, and I’m sorry we took that time for granted.

I wanted to hug you, Sam, that last day I saw you, but I was afraid of embarrassing you in front of your friends. I will always regret that decision, no matter how much time passes.

Universal Sadness

July 25, 2019July 25, 2019 / Lisa / 12 Comments

It’s funny how the universe tosses things to you in lumps, almost as if somewhere, someone is saying ‘the theme for this week is going to be…’.

Sometimes it’s things like dishwashers. You know – you make the mistake of pricing a dishwasher online and suddenly all your feeds are filled with ads for dishwashers. And every delivery truck you pass on the road is carrying boxes of dishwashers. You see them everywhere for a week or so and then they’re gone, as if people quit buying dishwashers.

It’s like that when you’ve lost someone, too. There are universe themes where, for several days, you seem to see them everywhere you look.

This week has been like that. I went to the local grocery store and there was Sam, standing in the produce aisle.

Except it wasn’t Sam.

Then I saw him walking down the street in shorts and flip-flops, earbuds in.

Except it wasn’t Sam.

Then I got online and in a grief resource page I belong to, a person I don’t know posted about how lately they saw their child everywhere.

And then Sam’s mom said she’d seen Sam in a young firefighter she passed, and how emotionally hard that had been for her.

Obviously there’s been a lot of sadness this week. But at the same time, it’s strange how this comes in waves. Why now?

What happens in the world around us that we are all having the same sort of grieving week? Not just those of us connected to Sam, but others, too. Is it that odd sense of days shortening, seasons changing? Even though it’s only July and too early, there have been days this week that felt like fall. Is it the melancholy moment of change, of the earth turning toward sleep, of darker mornings?

Or is it simply how grief works? That some days are good and some days are hard and some weeks there are reminders surrounding you that are bittersweet?

Or maybe it’s just our loved ones giving us a gentle nudge, reminding us that they are still with us. To not forget them.

Whatever the reason, I’m not alone this week. There are people around me seeing their loved ones, suffering through that brief second of joy when we recognize the one who is gone, before reality smacks us in the heart.

I’m with you, wherever you are. And I understand.