sidewalks (1)

4 minute read

all the sidewalks

The word sidewalk appears thirty times in my book Willower.

The line I love you more than all the sidewalks in the world appears nine times.

The first time I heard this was when Sam, as a toddler, said it to me. It stayed with me. It was a funny thing to hear, an unusual measurement to use—sidewalks? But then, the sidewalk was our world; where we spent most of our time collecting acorns, bugs, sticks, stones . . .

After the unthinkable happened, this expression of how much we loved each other, more than all the sidewalks in the world, would become a thread in our story, the message I needed—the proof?—to know we were still and always would be connected.

treasure

It was five years and five months after Sam’s death, while cleaning his room, that this affirmation reappeared, handwritten on a green rubber band, a bracelet he had inscribed with a ballpoint pen.

As I was putting my newfound treasure into my ruby-red jewelry box, the one that had been a Mother’s Day gift, I found something else. On the inside of the fluorescent green rubber band, there was an inscription—Sam’s handwriting in faded blue ink: I love you more than all the sidewalks in the world.

Not because I couldn’t retain it, but because I wanted to hear his voice, I read it again and again before putting it away.

“I love you, Sammy.”

I love you, too, Mommy—more than all the sidewalks in the world.

Excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss (from Chapter 9. Migrating)

our experience of them

For us willowers, it was through our child’s eyes that we saw and experienced the world, how they saw and reacted and related with it. Living without our child now, we lose that experience of them experiencing life.

Question: After unimaginable loss, how do we rewrite our lives? And by rewrite I mean readjust, revise or mend ourselves, and our lives, and reclaim that experience of their experience?

There’s no single answer. Grieving the death of a child means a lifetime of continual effort and work and soul searching.

For me, writing and sharing what I’ve experienced is one of the things I do. Going for walks is another. 

in my grief . . .

I’d taken to walking, venturing outside. Alone, I’d wander alongside the wooded areas, bird-watching or looking for the luna moth, searching every bush, behind every tree. I was a modern-day version of the bereaved Cro-Magnon mother Bryan Sykes had written about.

Excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss (from Chapter 8. Grieving: one year)

It began as a self-soothing mechanism: walking, strolling all the sidewalks, remembering and recreating what we, he and I, used to experience together. Going for walks became my mourning (and morning) ritual. 

For you? Well, I hope you’ll find a little inspiration here that helps you find something, a mourning ritual, that might work for you. Going for a walk, journaling, or doing something you and your beloved child used to enjoy doing together—something that helps get you through your days. 

I’ve learned . . .

After several years of rewriting life after unimaginable loss, I’ve learned that when we reclaim something we’ve had, something meaningful, something we shared with him/her/them, and then recreate that shared experience, we maintain our connection, our bond, our relationship with them. 

And, when we continue to share with our deceased child our joy, our sadness, our thoughts, our memories, our fears, our questions, our hopes, even our walks, we are then able to rewrite, readjust, reclaim, revise or mend ourselves, and our lives. 

now . . .

My days, now, are mostly quiet. 

I still go for walks—the way we, he and I, used to. 

I still search for treasure—the way we used to. 

And though I’ve wandered all the sidewalks in my neighborhood for years now, I still find pieces of treasure, interesting things, and the messages I need—the proof?— to know we, he and I, are still and always will be connected.

I love you more than all the sidewalks in the world.

“Sammy, I love you more than all the sidewalks in the world.”

Excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss (from Chapter 11. A different ending)

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