It’s been too cold and too dark for too long now too. The other night, to mark the winter solstice, to remind us of longer days ahead, I lit all the candles I could.
Mom and Dad came. I hadn’t seen them since summer. Mom had made my favourite childhood sweets and brought them with her, along with the loveliest mineral bath salts. She also brought her gorgeous smile, and her enthusiasm for our happiness here, and I remembered that empathy and pure love are the best of gifts.
What would we, any of us, do without these?
Yesterday, after seeing my aunts—those still with us—at Mom’s birthday lunch, perhaps in part as a result of sensing the heaviness of the million crushing losses they have all born throughout the courses of their lives, I desperately needed a nap. I woke up hungry, and my husband offered to warm up some leftover lamb stew. Gratitude.
To my friends who have lost their mothers or fathers or a child or a partner, those whose loneliness hurts: I’m so sorry; I can only imagine the void. For you, for all of us, I light a lot of candles at this time of year. They remind me that though hope at times flickers, it will steady again to, and make us more conscious of the growing light.