Raising a Glass of Whiskey

The day before Easter, there’s always a service to bless baskets and all of the goodies that fill them. It’s usually some hard-boiled eggs, cookies, maybe some cuts of meat. That’s what my mom would always bless – in one of her baskets, anyway. But there was always a second basket, one that would clink and clank as we walked into the church gathering space. Champagne that we would pour Easter morning for mimosas. Wine to accompany dinner. And whiskey, always whiskey. It’s become a family staple over the years.

It all started with my grandfathers. They’d toast with whiskey to mark occasions that brought us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings. But also, funerals. They grew close over the years, as they became more like family and less like in-laws. From how I remember it, one gifted the other with a bottle of Bushmills and a simple ask – whoever goes first, use this to celebrate all of wonderful moments they shared. And we did, for both of them over the years. And we continue toasting for everyone we’ve lost whenever we’re gathered for those occasions that bring us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings and funerals.

One important thing about grief that no one ever tells you about – is how you have to balance the grief of others against your own. It’s been a hard lesson. The revolutions of emotion my mother, my brother and myself go through are ever-changing and unpredictable. You lean on one another, but don’t want to amplify each other’s pain in doing so. It’s caused some very raw, and difficult moments.

It can hard to be honest and sensitive at the same time. Someone may want to reminisce about dad or talk openly about how they’re coping, when someone else needs a break from the riptide of feelings they’re battling.

For me, it’s typically helped to keep dad part of the conversation. I’m hungry to hear stories about him when he was younger, or recall happy moments. But not everyone has felt that way, and I’ve tread lightly in kind. We’ve all tread lightly, trying not to upset one another.

But on Easter, something shifted. We weren’t worrying or dancing around grief in the ways we had been. Us three came together and sat at the kitchen island talking and laughing for hours – talking and laughing about dad. And it was more freeing then probably anything else has been in the past few months.

But maybe, most importantly, we poured this year’s blessed bottle of whiskey and raised our glasses high, toasting dad with smiles, finally, instead of tears.