The black Toyota Scion parked next to my car set me off. This was Zane’s car…the driver was his age. I cried all the way to the grocery store.  I fixed my make up and went inside to shop. Then the song came over the intercom. A song Zane shared with me and the words sliced me in half.  I am crying, bent over the shopping cart, hoping no one will come down the aisle while I try to pull myself together.

Joey, the cashier, asks me how I am doing.  “Fine, thank you”, I say and turn my head so not to cry again. He tells me about how his staff can’t figure out why he smiles all the time.  How he is happy because it is so much lighter than being sad.  He says he is an empath.  And that was all I needed. I burst into a full-on raging sob.  I am apologizing as he is asking me what’s wrong, am I ok.  I am crying how I just lost my son and he was an empath, how he would say these sorts of things and how life now sucks…

I felt for poor Joey, that sweet, smiling empath.  I am sure he needed an energy bath after my tantrum.  He holds my hands and whispers; “I’m sorry for your son”. I apologize, again, and ask him to keep smiling.  He is a light for all of us.  I leave, sobbing all the way to the car.

Mourning is good for us-it is grief expressed.  I should be really good at it.  But I seem to be worse.  I am a shell; a now, aching, pressured, and screaming mess. I can’t fix this.  The biggest thing I need to fix, I can’t.  The pain is unbearable.

I wrote the above experience in my journal in April of 2019.  8 months after Zane was killed. Flash forward another 21 months and I am having a bad day, struggling with grief and find myself grocery shopping, albeit in a different store, and a similar song comes on. My eyes fill with tears.  But this time is different.

This time, time has passed, although it still feels like yesterday. I have had (lots of) practice with handling grief bursts in public.  I have had training reaching out to my son on his new realm.  I have a better realization of what are signs, postcards, being sent to me.  I am more secure in my belief that Zane is still with me. So I say, quietly, out loud; “hey Zane, love this song, need you here to listen to it with me”. I hold out my hand to my side. It is my way of feeling how my son would have held my hand. It gives me reassurance. And I take my moment. And yes, I stand in the aisle hurting, grief crashing down on me.  But this one time, I am not drowning.  I feel my son.  I know he is near and I take a deep breath to push my cart forward. And I thank Zane for helping me through this moment.

I can’t say this happens every time. I can’t say it happens often. But when it does, I am grateful the waves of grief are not all consuming.  These manageable moments strengthen my hope that I may have the ability to move forward.  With the memories of when Zane was physically here and the new memories I experience with him in spirit.