Let’s be proactive and give ourselves permission to be a mess and unpredictable and high and low and high again. So, dear ones, as the holidays approach, let’s make room for grief. My incredible mother-in-law, Betty Hotes, occupies that hallowed shelf as well. In fact, I understand I’ll miss my dad often for the rest of my days because he was the kind of person that left one helluva void. No doubt this is the key reason the Christmas decorating triggered my grief, but truth is, there’s nothing predictable about grief. I still have last year’s thread on Messenger and plan to start my day with coffee and a few minutes with Dad’s last words. Every year he was the first to text me, ‘Happy Birthday, my girl!’ And inevitably, he’d tell me the story of my birth how fast I came into the world who brother Garth stayed with during the big event and then, always, he’d tell me how much he loved me. My birthday’s coming up, the first I’ll experience without Dad. The next song began and I wiped my eyes, stood, and put the lid back on the Christmas tub. I slumped on the couch next to the traumatized dog and cried it out. I crooned in tune those first lines and then, broke down in tears. The Mountain’s Gonna Sing, by Steep Canyon Rangers played over the speaker. When I say I was cheerful, I was singing loud enough to make my lab, Cooper, wary. Energized, I dotted the front room with some favorites from the Christmas bins. To the sounds of an upbeat, 80s playlist, I cleared away the last of the Halloween décor. In fact, it felt good to reminisce a healing milestone. The other day I poured over a photo album and it didn’t hurt. It’s been a little over eight months since the death of my beloved father, Gary Riley. Then, on occasion, something lights the frigging wick, and loss permeates everything. It’s always there, holding space, whether I pay attention to it or not. Once the wick is lit, the wax warms and a cinnamon scent flavors the air. There’s a pillar candle in the center of my kitchen island.

Hurt go happy