Grief is a strange thing. It comes. It goes. It strikes at the strangest times.
We recently purchased a new mini-van. Something I was excited about, until
it was time to trade our old van in.
I mean, it's not like I LOVED our old van.
I'm not an overly huge fan of the mini-van, but
we bought our old van before my Mom was sick.
She was the first person to ride with me in the van the night Jon
picked it up from the dealership. We went shopping together in it.
She laughed at me, because I always said I would never drive a van.
She rode in the van to the county fair, the state fair, and to Boston to adopt
our two oldest children. She rode in the van on day trips to museums and zoos.
I drove the van down state to be with her while she was in the hospital, while she
was having chemo, to visit her whenever I could.
She rode in the van one fall day up to the Adirondacks. By then, she was too sick
to walk, so we drove and drove and drove. We looked at the leaves
together, talked, and enjoyed the time we had. Both of us realizing, that without
a miracle, it would be the last time we would look at the leaves changing color.
She rode on the van the last night we went out together
for a "Fun Girls" night. We saw a movie, went to the thrift
store. Even though I knew the van needed to be traded,
couldn't last forever, it was hard to say good bye to it.
It was hard to say good-bye to something I had shared with my Mom.
It was hard to realize that she would never ride with me in my new van. She would never
again take day trips, weekend trips, long drives with me.
She would never laugh that I was buying a second van.
This would be another chapter of my life that she wouldn't be a part of.
Grief really does stink. Who knew that saying good-bye to an old
mini-van could be so hard.
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