Land of the Lost


This morning I realized my son had drawn me into his sneaker obsession. It has been new to me, this situation of sneaker release dates and elusive rare shoes to be collected rather than worn. You can never have enough. Yet, I understand obsessions and addictions of any type. We look for ways to distract ourselves. He and I both understand that no pair of sneakers will take our loss away, but we cling to what might feel good as we go forward. We grasp for footing.

Once my boy had woken up today I introduced him to a television show which most American children and I had been obsessed with when I was his age. I have likened how I feel in the world these last two years to Land of the Lost. Like Marshall, Will and Holly I suddenly found myself in a world to which I did not belong and could never imagine making my home. Grief, shock, anger and despair dog me on the same scale as dinosaurs. The hollowness of Susanna’s absence feels like the widest primordial cavern. I have learned to scavenge for water and scrape together a hearth for myself and my family, also a threesome. We too have dropped through a portal and woken up somewhere we never dreamed we could be. We once knew the name for this world but not its eminent appearance in our reality. Land of the lost, absolutely. Yet there are more worlds than we know, right alongside us.

Easter is coming, again. Another Easter without Susanna and all of the memories of her last couple of days with us. I evade the thoughts of celebrating yet I will hang the egg wreath on the door because I know she is watching. Susanna is waiting for joy to return to match the depth and breadth of all the pain, or at least give it a run for its money. Spring is an eruptive force beneath the ground. It looks pretty upon arrival but contains the creative energies which shaped the earth. Nature has the power to heal and I will not stop waiting. I will forge ahead like always. I will forage for reasons to hang on and survive, because I have to. I will buy sneakers, because my boy and I have to go places. We love you Susanna, every step of the way.









By trishfreer

Mother, writer, artist and teacher grappling with grief and loss.

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