What must be said: hardware, broccoli, and love

Drilling a hole in the wall with an electric drill while vacuuming the dust.Last night I learned a dear friend died. She and her husband helped us when our first child was born and were both friends and second parents to us. That’s when she inscribed a copy of THE ENCHANTED BROCCOLI FOREST cookbook: “In our hearts, you’ll always be our neighbors.”

The news reminded me about grief, that black feeling of a hole opened in the night. It’s so palpable. I’d forgotten how it lies inside us like a block of granite and how many tears it takes to melt it away.

My mom died almost 10 years ago. My dad made a memorial service with stations showing parts of her life: lab work as a chemist, travel, family, church etc. I think he wanted to show her off one last time. What struck me at the time were the number of things in her life that were interrupted. I saw for the first time how rarely we have the privilege of finishing.

This new grief brings up familiar questions: What are we here for? What must be done before we go? What must be said?

Before she died, my mom stopped doing certain things, stripping wallpaper or re-organizing junk. But a little later on, she added some back in. “Going to the hardware store seems like it gets in the way,” she said. “But actually it’s what life is.”

I love you, Mom!

I love you, dear neighbors!

I love you, husband!

I love you, my children!

I love you, Dad!

Going to the hardware store now to get a bulb for a friend.

Wishing you all broccoli, hardware, and neighbors during this holiday season and beyond!

_________________

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Laurel Decher

LAUREL DECHER writes stories about all things Italian, vegetable, or musical. Beloved pets of the past include "Stretchy the Leech" and a guinea pig that unexpectedly produced twins. She's famous for a nonexistent sense of direction, but carries maps because people always ask her for directions. When she's not lost, she can be found on Twitter and on her blog, This Is An Overseas Post, where she writes about life with her family in Germany. She's still a Vermonter and an epidemiologist at heart. PSA: Eat more kale! :) Her short fiction for adults, UNFORESEEN TIMES, originally appeared in _Windhover_. Photo: © Jane Joo Park, 2017.

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