Month: July 2016

It was a bunch of wild personalities colliding over the course of our young lives. Through our families, sports, classes – something undoubtedly pulled us all together and by high school, this crazy group of nine girls found each other.

We’d band together at sleepovers, and bond over boys. We’d spend hours just driving around and laughing nearly ever weekend as teenagers, and through college we’d roadtrip to see one another when we could. It’s been an adventurous and beautiful ride, growing up together.

As we got older and nine silly teens bloomed into independent young women, our relationships with one another would change – strengthening and softening over the years as we moved onto different parts of our lives.

But lately, we’ve been brought together more often – just not in the way we’d hoped. This last heavy week, especially. Another set of unpleasant reasons, in what feels like a never-ending string of unpleasant reasons, that brought us back home and to each other.

Collectively in the last two years or so, we’ve been through some of the worst experiences to weigh down hearts as young as ours. We’ve lost so much – parents, marriages, some things that are too painful to share, and nearly one of our own. Our group chat that should delight in nostalgia and funny pictures has been a relentless reminder of the hardships we’ve faced. And there have been some truly raw and painful moments.

It’s insane the intensity and frequency with which bad things keep happening, and I don’t know why.  These are good people, with big personalities and even bigger hearts behind them. And the strength and grace with which I’ve watched us confront some of the worst times of our lives is a testament to that. This is a group of some very tough women.

And I think some of that strength comes from knowing we have each other to lean on.

It’s unique, what we have. That the friends we still turn to now are the ones we’ve turned to all along. That the people we’re closest to has changed so little as we’ve changed ourselves. It’s what reminds me how lucky we are to have the friendships we do. I know that for myself, those friendships have been a tremendous comfort since losing dad. These women have walked through fire with me, opened their hearts more than they have already and then brought joy back into my life. I’m forever thankful for that, and this sisterhood of sorts.

And with that in mind, in the wake of more things we shouldn’t have to rise above, but will –

I am so proud to stand beside you then, now and always.

 

When we were young, my parents would take my brother and I to see fireworks over the fourth. Or we’d gather with friends to fire our own from the edge of the dock. And when the roaring stopped, and the last flickers of light would fade against the night sky, I would wait to spot the small canister parachutes floating along the water top. I’d drag dad by the hand and excitedly point to where I saw them bobbing, while he’d lay belly down on the dock and reach out to grab them as they drifted in. The fourth of July was always a happy time we’d all spend together.

Two years ago, dad had just started treatment. He was feeling strong, finally upright from a bought of infection that sidelined him after surgery. Really, you couldn’t tell he was sick. He was able, happy.

So that holiday weekend, we gathered with friends for cocktails and walked to the shoreline to watch fireworks arch over the riverfront. Most of us, myself included, found spots near the top of the hill to sit, as crowds had already gathered and rolled out blankets at the seawall’s edge. But dad, he weaved past couples and huddled families to find a spot of grass near the water, where he stretched out on the flat of his back as the fireworks started.

Watching him, I felt a sobering tug from inside. This strong knowing that I needed to make memories with my father however, whenever I had the chance. I needed to embrace moments that may not come again. That was a hard lesson to learn in those final months.

We didn’t mean to, but our family naturally fell into traditional gender roles growing up. I would spend more time at mom’s side helping clean the house and the set the table, while the boys tinkered in the garage or worked in the yard. For as alike as we were, dad and I didn’t have as much common ground to bond over. And when we’d spend time together, it was so often the whole four of us that there wasn’t much time alone just dad and I. It’s added this surprising, complicated layer to my grief – feeling like I had the least amount of time with him.

So that fourth of July, two years ago, I got up and walked down the hill – and with saying nothing, laid down next to him curling into his side. He didn’t say anything either. I just felt the comforting tug of his arm as he pulled me in closer, and laid my head on his shoulder.

For 20 minutes, we watched bright colors splash against a velvet canvas and never said a word. And when it was over, and everyone stood to go, we waited. Not this time to find parachutes at the edge of the dock, but because it was just really lovely.