I joined three grown siblings and their mom as they celebrated and grieved their father and husband at their long time home, which they recently made the difficult decision to sell.
The stories circled around for over two hours and we never even set foot in the house. We started with the day Uncle Troy showed up and helped his very pregnant niece pack up all of the family's belongings less than 48 hours before the third born burst upon the scene. I learned why the front trees were planted, where the kids' treehouse was, the night the storm took it down, how proud dad was of his azaleas, and where the family pets are buried. The siblings remembered pulling running cedar to twist into red-bowed Christmas wreaths, shooting mistletoe out of trees, and after a bit of searching in the overgrown hillside, managed to find a few old golf balls their beloved dad had used for post-retirement chipping practice.
Mourning is a strange and daunting alchemist. There's joy in it and anger. There's disbelief along with some of the deepest knowing we ever know. It fires us up and burns us down. And sometimes it just looks like a walk around the yard.