Introspective...

That's the kind of day it is. Introspective.

Sounds better than bummer.

And honestly it's less of a bummer than it has been. It's still a day that if I'm not careful I could cry. In fact I read a lovely little essay this morning from someone who is grieving the loss of their husband and I did cry. But to be perfectly fair I would have cried any day over that. I'm an easy crier.

BUT...today? Oh yeah. Cried easily.

Jack (Brent's father) would have been 77 today. Great number right? So bummed he didn't live to see it.

He's been gone 18 years. We are quickly coming up to the point where Brent will be older than his father. Meaning, he will be older than his father ever was. Which is a brain breaker. Especially for me, considering I don't even have real strong memories of my parents until they were in their 40s. I mean, my dad was 56 when I graduated high school and got married. I'm only 57 now. He was really young when I graduated. But he was also only a few years younger than Jack got total in life.

So yeah, it's a bit of a brain breaker.

Most of you know that my father died on my mother's birthday. And my mother died on my grand niece's birthday. Round and round the world goes. Well Jack died right around Labor Day and Ann died right around Memorial Day. Birthdays, Death Days, Holidays.

It's been three years since Kevin died. As his father has said he was my soul friend. We (the group of us online who found each other) have used similar terms. Family of my heart. Found family. My spiritual children (even if a couple of them are only a little over a decade younger than I am and a few are closer than that, I am still Mom). But the way you know he really was part of my family is he died on Jack's birthday. And I found out he was gone on Thanksgiving. That was Kevin, doubled down.

I heard from his dad earlier this month. The wild thing is that I had just told Brent that I wasn't sure when I was going to fully grasp that Kevin was gone. I had just seen something very cool on a cooking show and I thought, "Oh! I have to tell Kevin about this!" and then remembered. And that's the way it goes a lot of the time. The forgetting part.

I'm not sure how long Jack was gone, or Dad was gone, or my mom was gone, or Ann was gone before I realized that it was forever. That I stopped thinking, "Oh! I have to tell them..."

But hearing from Keith was almost like Kevin tapping me on the shoulder telling me he is still here. Which he is. As long as we live we hold the memory of those who have gone before us. As long as we live, so do they.

I talk to my parents all the time. When I make something out of spare parts I am in conversation with my dad. When I sing out loud or laugh at my own jokes I'm talking to my mom. "The bible says to make a joyful noise, it never said it had to be in tune!" I've also been talking to my folks all season this year watching Michigan football. They have one player named Marsh (one of my brother's middle names, named after my father) and one player named Marshall. When Marshall does something I say his name the way my mother said my father's. It makes me laugh.

I talk to Jack when I dust his flag box. I wonder what he would think of this current administration and what they are doing to the military. I talk to Ann when I fall down a rabbit hole researching some new brain science article that's out. She used to send me psychology links, I'm assuming because she knew I found them interesting and not because she was hinting I was in need of help. Honestly, could have gone either way.

I talk to Kevin. He's a character in my stories when I need a loveable rogue. He's a voice in my head telling me to be careful with my knives, or to go ahead and toss in more cheese because that's always a good idea. He's one of the children of my heart and he wasn't supposed to die before me. I've almost reached the point where I don't "tell" him that as well.

It's an introspective day.

You don't know how long you are going to get in this world. Make sure you do what you want with the time you have left.

And hold the memory of those that have gone before you close. As long as you live, so do they.