Sweat pants on my back porch in June. Just over two years since Emmett passed. The big dipper hanging overhead. A firefly trying to court my computer screen. My life feels a little surreal at the moment.
A couple dozen elementary school children effectively dulled any sense of loss I might have had last week. Random stories that made no sense, trips to the bathroom, reminders to wash hands, dozens of balloons, and the phrase, "Miss Wendy," repeated at an unnaturally high pitch until I was teetering on the edge of crazy was probably the perfect distraction this week.
And then the fireflies came out. Quinn and I got home this evening and he danced and twirled in the fading light trying to catch fireflies and probably murdering more than he managed to capture alive. We took a walk and he maintained a continuous stream of chatter that makes me wonder how he has time to breathe sometimes. His endless chatter ranged from questions about the exact meaning of the word dusk to how to make a firefly rocket by attaching a bottle of diet coke to its rear end and dropping in a mentos (and I'm not making that up).
I'm not exactly sure where the bottom dropped out, but with all the distractions gone, and so many reminders around me, the wave of grief finally crashed down. In the past few years, I've found that embracing grief somehow makes it easier. So I caught fireflies, listened to sad songs, cleaned, baked, and somehow came right back around to alright.