There was a period of time where I was really finding my groove with eating habits that supported my goals. In that time, I had discovered a particular ice cream bar – this salted caramel halo top keto pop that was divine. Well, as divine as a reduced fat and sugar alternative dessert can be.
It seems they have stopped producing them now and I’m bummed.
Tonight, I went looking on Instacart for an alternative. Such a desolate wasteland of Carb Smart (ew), Protein Ice Cream (bruh), and Greek Yogurt Frozen Desserts (double ew).
But then I spotted this lemon sorbet frozen pop and while I considered it for a moment I realized it only appealed to me because it reminded me of the one time I got to have my very own bottle of Alison’s Limoncello, a decadent homemade liquer. Heavenly. 10 out of 10. No notes.
And as I let my mind sway in a dance of sweet rememberance about that clear bottle of yellow booze, my gut starts to feel a familiar ache.
I don’t only remember the sweet drink, I remember the evenings spent laughing to the point of tears. The Saturdays spent shopping and transforming Alison’s visits to her aging parents in their respective separate nursing homes from a chore into as much of an adventure as one can make.
Trying on clothes with Wendy helping Heather to reduce her clothing inventory (such cute clothing).
Elizabeth’s birthday party. Camping. Gingerbread houses, carving pumpkins, coloring eggs.
I’d never ever had a tight-knit friend group. We called ourselves the Estrogen Squad. We took care of one another and we looked out for each other’s friends. I stayed at Heather’s (with 2-year old in tow) while my marriage started the last leg of it’s implosion process.
Damn.
I made a conscious effort not to take any of that for granted.
But I’m sure I’ll always miss that crew. That sense of having each other’s backs and knowing one another so well.
I’m starting to wonder how much grief is normal. Or maybe how much grief is just unnoticed. The longing for a meal at a restaurant that closed a decade ago. The desire to drop into a conversation with an old friend who’s no longer even an acquaintance. The yearning to pet that dog one more time. To hold the baby who’s now a child. To be begged to watch the sunset by the child who’s now a teen.
All of this I suppose would be there even in a world that hasn’t gone mad, which is a whole other layer of ache.
What’s strange is I watch my mind as I write this. Judging how much of a ‘downer’ it is and how nobody will want to read another post about grief.
But what’s fascinating is I don’t feel down. I feel sad. I feel an ache. But it’s not disappointment. It’s being with the reality of what was and what is. It’s recognizing that what was was truly beautiful and special and precious and what is is that I was lucky to experience it.
So every time I catch my mind bumping into the grief, I’m reminded to look at my 7 and drink him in – to enjoy the little isms that are features right now and won’t be someday. To try to burn into my memory how his voice sounds and how the top of his head feels against my kisses and the sound of his laugh in a righteous tickle attack.
Nothing lasts. It all fades and if you’re lucky you don’t notice the switch from what was to what isn’t.
Grief doesn’t have to be something that drowns you or consumes you. She can be a gentle guide, helping you stay on the path of least regret.
