When grief is bittersweet

I took my daughters on a walk in the woods the other day and happened upon some birds taking a bath in a stream. My very first thought was, “I have to call Mom.” Almost simultaneously, I remembered that I can’t call her; she’s been dead for more than seven years.

But she popped into my head in that moment because she used to tell this story about me waiting next to my grandparents’ birdbath to see the birds. There’s even a picture to commemorate the story: three year old me in a pink winter coat, staring determinedly at the (very empty) birdbath. My mom told me how they tried to convince me that I was too close and the birds wouldn’t come but I waited and waited anyway. She loved telling that story. So when I came upon those robins bathing in the stream while I walked with my own children, I was seized with the desire to call my mother to tell her, I finally managed to catch the birds in the act.

It was sad, obviously, to realize I couldn’t actually call her. But what a lovely moment, to forget for just a split second—to have her be so alive to me still.

This is what I mean when I describe grief as bittersweet. The long, winding road of bereavement is filled with these moments: listening to a song that reminds you of your person; finding their handwriting in an old card; hearing a story you’d forgotten or never known about them. It’s sad, of course, but it’s lovely too, that the person you lost is still with you.

Grief isn’t all sharp edges and painful black holes—though those are part of it. It can also be a gift. Let it be. Let your heart feel full, even if it hurts. Find the sweetness in your grief.