The thirteenth of October marked one month since Quinn's funeral. That month lived like a year. So much of our thinking has been rearranged, and we're still unsure of ourselves, stumbling on wobbly emotional legs. I'm distrustful of myself in public. I'm relearning how to buy groceries, how to cook, how to avoid diaper ads. Some days are good, and I can tune out the immediate heartbreak. Some days are horrible and I want to give in to the grief and let it swallow me whole. Some days I feel OK, but then I meet a friend in the produce section, and instead of choosing the perfect bunch of bananas, I'm wiping my eyes again.
I find myself having a good morning, but then suddenly getting outrageously angry at small things, like the inept repair of potholes in the road. In the same vein, I might have a tearful day, feeling like I'm going to vomit the whole time, but end the day with laughter around the supper table.
People ask what they can do for us. I don't know. Bring Quinn back.
But please keep praying. Please keep using Quinn's name. Keep asking how we're doing, but be OK with an in-the-moment answer. Some times we want to talk about it, but sometimes we need to forget about the grief for a time.