Years ago when I was twenty-something, unmarried, and not yet a mother, I met a “strange lady” whose young adult son had been killed in an accident. When I met her, it had been several years since the tragic event. She seemed to hide her face behind her long dark hair and a variety of attractive hats she usually wore. People whispered that she should have been “over it” after this much time, and they wondered whether she was mentally stable. People also whispered that she had a shrine in her house for her son. She once showed me a photo of this “shrine.” It looked like a table with a few framed photos, his high school football awards, and a few other items. I now understand that it wasn’t a shrine, it was simply a remembrance of the son she loves and lost. I remember how people, including me, avoided her. No one that I know of tried to understand her or reach out to her. I thought she was a bit odd and had no clue yet about dealing with the death of someone close to me.
Now, nine long and short years after my own son’s death, I wonder if people also whisper about me. Do they wonder if I’m mentally unstable because I still talk about Derek? Do they think it is strange that I have mementos and pictures all over my house? I don’t limit it to one small table. Do people think I should be “over it” by now? It’s been NINE YEARS, after all. They were over it long ago. Am I a “strange lady?”
I guess I wonder these things, but knowing the answer doesn’t change the facts. I’m not over the loss of Derek, and I don’t think I will be until I can wrap my arms around him again when God makes all things new. I am not hanging on to memories because I am in denial. After nine years without him, his absence is all too real. The items in my house are not a shrine, they are memories of beautiful times together. Memories are all I have. I guess I want people to understand that when Derek died nine years ago today, my love for him did not. No amount of time will change that. My love for him is not transferable to anyone else, and it will not die until I do.
As I think back on that experience from this point in my life, I wish I could find that lady and wrap my arms around her and ask her to tell me about her son and about each item on that little table. I understand her hidden face and her distance. I regret the whispered rumors and the lack of sympathy. Nine years is a very short time in the scheme of things.
