Instructions on how to mourn

Instructions on how to mourn from a 7-year-old:

Stomp around the Redwoods. Gaze up at them. Notice their height and swaying.

Your mom will say, “Do you have any questions about death?”

Ignore her and keep walking.

When you are sitting in a field to rest, ask her, “Do you think that tears fall down even if you’re doing a handstand?”

Munch on your Rice Chex in silence. Don’t betray any of your feelings. They are yours. And the trees.

Grief is not a Lego set with a fat book of instructions. The order calming, the project finite.

It is a thousand memories tucked under the surface of your skin, the extra clothes she always had on hand in case you forgot to get to the potty in time (no big deal), the books she let you borrow because she knew they meant something special to just you, the way her hugs enveloped you and made you forget that the world is harsh.

It is. So harsh.

It is the way your momma relaxed in her presence.

It is the luxurious beauty of consistency.

It is the anger of: too soon. It is the joy of: to have known her at all.

Is it possible that the children she has raised—nearly 50 years worth of them—are all feeling some version of the same quiet, ancient feeling today?

Noticing the swaying?

Refusing the grown-ups questions made of dumb words?

Look for fallen logs that are balance beams. Walk across them in silver sparkly sneakers.

Always leap at the end.

Some of you might remember the teacher I referenced last week. She wasn’t okay, at it turned out. She died of a heart attack Sunday night. We are devastated. She was an incredible mother, grandmother, and wife. She was a giant of a caretaker and human—unconditionally loving, calming, generous. She’s been raising her own and other people’s babies for five decades. Teaching is an outrageously effective legacy project. She lives on in all of us.