This morning I discovered the first zinnia bloom as I was watering the plants outside. A solitary, beautiful little straggler.

After a visit to the local yarn shop I went to knitting group and crocheted the rest of the second sleeve on the second sweater I've made for my son. As I was sewing the pieces together and daydreaming about what my son is going to look like, my phone rang. "Mom" showed up on the display. Now, you know that any phone call that starts with the question, "Are you sitting down?" is usually not a good one. I guess I knew what she was going to say, but it didn't make it any easier.

Mourning is a funny thing. One moment everything is normal, it's an every-day kind of day and the next the heart of someone you love stops beating. And they're gone. A brief few seconds of shock, then realization and then the inevitable breaking of the dam. There were condolences and hugs, a few shared tears from understanding hearts. Then I walked away and composed myself. It never even crossed my mind to leave the knitting group and go home, because there was no one waiting for me at home. When I sat back down, red-eyed and sniffling, I picked up my needle and thread and continued to sew. At some point normal conversation resumed and as more ladies arrived with their fiber creations, the mood was lifted and I felt better among the welcome distraction of friends.

See, I believe in reunion after the celebration of a long life lived well. Death is a part of all this, it's as much a part of life as being born. As much as I feel the emptiness and the ache from my Grandma's loss, I also share in her joy of moving on and of eternity.

This isn't the end. This isn't goodbye.

See you soon, Grandma. I love you.

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