As the glories of fall fade into the dormancy foreshadowing winter, I often struggle to adjust to the cold, rainy days and early darkness. Gone are the myriad of colors on the trees and the bright pumpkins of Halloween. Spirits and ghosts have been celebrated, then relegated to the cemetery, which has taken on the grayness of the season. Skeleton-like branches and dead leaves reinforce the sense of loss.
For me, personally, the first week of November has traditionally been a time of mourning. My father died 65 years ago this week; my mother, 25 years ago, preceded by my brother the year before. All three are buried together in Connecticut, overlooking a stream, surrounded by beautiful trees. The cemetery is pictured on my home page at a cheerier time of year.
Shortly after they died, I was very aware of the anniversary dates of their birthdays, and most particularly, of their deaths. One fall, years after my mother had died, I was busy with life’s activities and forgot the anniversary of her death. I wondered why I was feeling depressed that day. When I checked the calendar, I saw that my body had not forgotten, even if my brain had.
One year I was in Montreal in early November and discovered Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery, where this statue spoke to me of the wistful quietness that comes to me now during this time—no longer grief or sadness, rather it has become a thoughtful time to remember the past and think about the future.
Grief has moved into an acceptance of the absence of my loved ones, and I feel they are not lost, but will always be a part of me. They remain in my beliefs and interests, my unconscious gestures, and best of all, memories. I recall fondly the days of boating with my father, fishing with my brother, and cooking with my mother. I often make her favorite meals and think of her.
