Originally written April 24, 2020

The hermit thrushes are back. There is little I enjoy more than these sweet little birds singing their ethereal songs, delivering messages from the heavens above.

I imagine Josiah floats on their melodies, through the woods, the trees and their leaves.

Perhaps he doesn’t just cling to my heart or to the side of my home in the form of a stellar jay, knocking insistently to come in. Maybe all I have to do to be with him is sit here quietly with coffee in hand.

Spring is here, windows are cracked open letting the sounds of nature pour in.

It is now her songs that sing, not just the songs of my home.

There are fewer fires percussively crackling in the woodstove these days. 

We are headed towards the dog days of summer.

Towards the brown grass, the green gardens and the endlessly quenching with water.

Towards the last days of Josiah’s life.

The end was now near, but he did not know it. I did not know it.

Nor did the ravens despite their loud cries. 

If I had, if we had, I may have tried a little harder, cried a little longer, begged a little louder for him to come back home. Back to the cabin on the mountain. Back to the mill with its raging saws, early evening meetings at the community center and the not-too-long drive to town.

There would have been new friends, new fishing licenses and maybe more early mornings on Ruth Lake, slow summer days on the Eel or maybe back to where it all began on the rocky banks of the Mattole.

Long drives out endlessly winding roads to the cool air of Shelter Cove. New cars, cute girls, finally finishing his fire training — fulfilling long, almost lost, but never forgotten dreams. 

But instead we are here, or I am, without the He — with the birds singing, sun rising, dogs sleeping, coffee cooling, heart aching, tears flowing, soul caressing, memories sifting while the last fleeting days of this first year disappear.

I can’t help but lay here hoping for more dreams to come — for more birds, new memories and the hermit thrush’s same old song.

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When Grief Speaks is a selection of writings that originated as journal entries and Facebook posts when I was in early grief after my son, Josiah, was killed. They speak straight from the heart, from the depths of despair that many bereaved find themselves in. I offer them here to not only openly share myself with you, but also to connect with those who may feel as I once did. As grief unfolds and matures, it changes. We grow grief muscles that we never wanted. At some point, we find that we can carry what we once thought would crush us and in that, we find hope.