It's the day before the one year anniversary of the loss of my beloved step-father, David.
"They" say the first anniversaries are the hardest, and that the lead up can be worse than the day itself.
I have so far found this to be true, as the tension coils and the emotions bubble up and over with even more bite than usual. It still hardly seems true that he is gone. Still.
Our little family decorated stones, to lay at the foot of the tree where David's ashes are scattered, the tree by which he ran and played and climbed as a child.
We had a quiet afternoon tea with his 95 year old father, a gentleman of the highest order, still living independently and sharp as a tack, kind as can be. He had lit the fire at his home so he could roast marshmallows for the great grandchildren, on his super deluxe double-pronged metal marshmallow roasting stick. An activity David would surely have delighted in joining in, and he would have gleefully let the children eat all the marshmallows they wanted (likely hundreds!).
Today we missed him but could hardly talk about him, a grief still too raw to express, one year on. But it felt good and right to be together, drawing quietly near as the day approaches.
And where is our delight today?
In family moments, in still-tender yet fond memories and in knowing that we grieve, but not without hope.
We miss him, but we know he is at perfect peace and that is the delight in the midst of my grief.
Documenting delight, every day in June.