grief

A Cold Luminary

/ Lisa / 3 Comments

Last night was the annual gathering in the little town I used to live in. I’ve written about this event before, but here’s a bit of background first, for those who are new.

Back in 2018, a young man by the name of Sam Grafton died. If you would like to see a small glimpse of who he was, go to YouTube and watch a video called ‘Tumwater Solitude’. Obviously it was a horrible time for family, but something wonderful happened that is a testament to a tiny town and the people who live there.

The first anniversary, people gathered and lit luminaries, setting the candles all along the bridge and streets and around his memorial bench. There was no set program, just an evening of walking among the candlelight and friends.

Since then, it’s become a regular gathering, but it has grown. It’s a gathering to remember all those we have lost over the previous year, to remember those we’ve loved, those we miss, and those we grieve for.

Yet at the same time, it’s a time to laugh and catch up, to visit with people we may not have seen in too long, to enjoy the sound of the whitewater river, the view of mountains and forest, and to simply wander around the town. It’s a community gathering, and yes, there is sadness in our memories and our loss, there is also a lot of laughter and hugs. There may, or may not, be a story floating around involving a golf car with a dying battery doing extremely slow donuts in an intersection one year being loudly cheered on by locals.

This year, it was thirty degrees (F). Cold. Really cold. Frosty and clear and a sickle moon so stars were out. I think my new hearing aids froze because they sure didn’t want to come out when I got home. Everyone was bundled up, and the evening probably didn’t go on as long as normal. I know I lasted an hour and didn’t ride in any golf carts.

Not to sound corny or anything, but my soul was warm when I left. Isn’t this what community should be? I’m not saying this little town is perfect. There are always conflicts and drama. But when people come together it brings home to me what is lacking in so many places.

After too many news stories, too much exposure to all the awful things in the world, I needed to go out into a chilly night, breathe in fresh air, hug friends, rest by the candlelight, laugh with those I love, and remember.

Thank you, Sam.

Harmony

/ 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

/ 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.