I made chili the day he died

 "Bring us peace , God,

enough for this quiet moment.

Enough to quiet the questions with no answers.

And, while you're at it, pencil us in for tomorrow, too." Kate Bowler

I made chili the day he died.

I didn't remember that when I made my menu plan for this week.

I didn't remember that as I grocery shopped for the ingredients.

As I dumped the cans of chili beans in the crock pot I remembered.

I made chili the day he died.

I don't know why I remember that miniscule detail of that day.

The minute I dumped that first can I could see the doctor's face, hear my mother's wail, see my siblings arrive one at a time and have to give the news again and again.

I don't know why it came rushing back, along with fresh tears, on Wednesday morning.

In the days, and months, after his death I've learned that grief is overshadowed by the daily living.

There's paperwork to fill out. Decisions to be made. Bills that are due.

The sadness has to come second to all the tasks that have to be done.

I've attended two funerals since his death.

Grief doesn't pause death either it seems.

I'm finding grief acts as a "scratch and reveal" chipping away at things long buried.

Family dynamics. Childhood baggage. Trauma.

Death is like a copper penny scratching away at each one......reminding me of all that is there. To be dealt with.

Or not?

Death reminds me that relationships are complicated.

And causes me to evaluate my current ones.

Emotional me just wants to take chili off the menu.

If I never make chili again, do I have to remember the vivid details of that day?

If I never make chili again, can I take my penny and put it away? No more scratch and reveal?

I'm pretty sure the only way through a hard thing is through.

I haven't unpacked all of this yet.

For now, I made chili the day he died.