Saturday, August 28, 2010

Fall

We took a long bike ride up the gorgeous C&O Canal trail this morning, from the Chain Bridge to Great Falls, about 20 miles roundtrip. Ed and our friend Shawn kept a pretty good lead on my sadly too-long-sedentary self, leaving me a lot of time to myself to think. As we near the end of August, the sun is already starting to cast its light in that way that reminds me of the photographs taken during my young childhood in the late seventies, the kind with just a hint of sepia haze over them. The changing light always makes fall such a nostalgic time for me anyway, but I imagine never moreso than it will this fall.

When we got to Great Falls today, we wandered down the boardwalks, looking out over the grand rushing Potomac. Moms and dads ambled around with babies in backpacks, strollers, carriers. I wanted so much to be one of them, to have my girl up in her backpack, chattering away to us about the birds, the dogs, the other babies. I said to Ed, “I miss her,” a thought I have so many times each day that it might as well just be one continuous thought. He said, “I know. She would have had so much fun here.” And she would have. It’s so very hard to contemplate all the things she would have enjoyed. All the things we would have enjoyed with her.

On our way back from our bike ride, we stopped by the Subway on our street for some lunch. We drove by a grassy spot nearby what used to be the Sunday farmers’ market in our neighborhood. Last summer, we spent many a Sunday afternoon grabbing a sandwich at Subway, having lunch in that grassy spot, with Hudson learning to crawl around, and then checking out what was on offer at the market that day. We parked the car and walked up the hill and I said, “I sure do miss her.” And he said, “Yeah.” I squeezed his hand. Neither of us ever need say more. We do this so many times each day that it would seem almost meaningless if each of us did not know the deep yearning behind those few little words.

Every moment of every day is filled with longing—all that changes is the quality of the longing. Sometimes the longing is intense and piercing, an agonizing reminder of all we have lost—this kind can quickly bring me to tears, and then sobs. Sometimes it is more like a subdued ache, coupled with sweet memories of how good we had it—this kind makes me pensive and wistful.

As the fall sun that I used to love so much begins to cast longer and longer shadows on the ground, as the light grows hazier, as the air grows chill and the leaves begin to crunch beneath our feet, I am hopeful that the longing, too, becomes less piercing and more subdued, less painful and more pensive. Fall has always worked a little magic on me. I hope it will this year, too.

15 comments:

  1. Oh, me too, Mandy. You are so clearly a wonderful mother, and I'm so sorry you're figuring out how to be that to a daughter you can't hold anymore. xo p

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  2. Mandy, there is a tone of peace and healing here this week. I know it is just one step in a long journey, but as the seasons of the year change, I hope and believe that the season of your grief is also changing. Take care of yourself--Melissa

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  3. Think of you both everyday. Love you.

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  4. Last night I was going through some of my sons clothes and found an old, way too small onsie with a turtle on the front and thought of Hudson. We never met, and I know you, Hudson and Ed only through this blog and your words, but I know that I will never forget her. With this large of an impact on total strangers, I can promise you that your little girl will always be remembered and will continue to remind us to look for the One Good Thing, and that in its self is a One Good Thing. I do hope you have your fall magic, you deserve it.

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  5. Your words "subdued ache" are so accurate (as is most everything else you write---you find amazing words to record this painful journey, words that give such voice to my own experience). Matt is always, always with me--his loss always on my mind--the only difference from one moment to the next is in the degree. The "subdued ache," the visceral awareness that he is gone, is a constant presence...

    But...like your friend Melissa, I see in your writing some movement toward healing...slow, very slow and not without steps backward...but there. For me too, although we both know that this is going to be a long process of learning to live a new life, a life that has joy in it, even with the presence of our "subdued ache."

    Love you, Mandy.

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  6. Oh, Mandy, all I can do is echo what others say about your beautiful portrayals of Hudson and the terrible longing they convey. I am so, so sorry. With every passing season, I hope a little more peace arrives. The determination to never let her be forgotten, and the desire for some relief must pull at each other all the time.
    Hugs from a faithful reader,
    Claire

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  7. Just wanted you to know I've been thinking about you, especially on the weekend(s). Glad you were able to get out and let nature envelop you. One of my favorite quotes is by Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience."

    Be good to yourself.
    Jackie

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  8. I've just found your blog by way of Between the Snow and the Huge Roses. I've only had the time/emotional energy to read a few entries, but so much sounds familiar. I'm sorry you have become a member of this sad club. I will be reading more of your and Hudson's story.

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  9. There's so much love in every word you write about Hudson. I hope that the fall does bring you some peace and a little magic as you continue to celebrate Hudson's life in everything you do.

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  10. Hoping that the heat and intensity of this summer give way to the soothing coolness of autumn very soon...

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  11. This is a lovely entry, Mandy. I know you'll miss Hudson in different ways with every passing season, though along with the others I am hoping that the fall air brings with it a bit of renewal and peace. Hugs from Durham.

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  12. I have always loved fall too Mandy, and while I know this fall will be a little different than anticipated for both of us (I was due in November), I hope that each passing day brings a little more peace and a little less hurt. xoxo

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  13. Hey neighbor. We're still here and reading and listening and thinking of you. Every day. Just wanted to send you some love today in writing and let you know we're still here and supporting you with open arms. Much love. -Mandi

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  14. Love you both – Ed by extension. Although I read this with a wistful sigh and I'm so glad you have each other to share and understand the pain and grief, I wish it was not there to begin with.

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  15. So beautifully written. That longing, that yearning, just slightly modulated in its intensity but always present.

    I'm sorry that Hudson was not there to enjoy the beautiful fall day. I know she is greatly missed.

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