Leaving Michigan in July was hard. It's always hard. I have to say goodbye to family and friends who are actually family and I have to leave the comfort of my childhood home where there's central AC (or central heat in the winter). I have to leave bonfires in the yard and walks at the lake. I have to leave flowerbeds and garden hoses and evenings in the swing and it's just plain hard. This year was even worse though. It's been a really long year. A really long few years. Home was a splash of color different this summer, as it has been each time we've trekked back recently. But now I'm different too. And well, that Tuesday night before I boarded the plane in Detroit, I wasn't sure I was gonna make it onto the plane. But I did. And then I hated LA for a week, or two, once I got here.
But the summer in Michigan. It was glorious. It was perfect. It was imperfect. It was sunshine and rain. It was digging in the dirt. It was mosquito bites. It was perfect. It was also different. Mom #2 wasn't there, in the lawn chair by the fire, as she always was. And that was really hard. Really hard. I thought a lot about her this summer, and about my grandparents too. We planted geraniums at two cemeteries this summer, to honor and remember all of them. And in case you don't know, geraniums take a lot of love. You have to water them and pluck off their dead flowers and well, that's it. But they like water. And when they get that love, they go crazy.
So this summer we planted four pots at two different cemeteries on different sides of town. Once I got the route and the routine down it took just 30 minutes to take care of all four pots. But those 30 minutes several times a week, they were important to me. They were a reminder, a way to connect, they were my chance to mourn and grieve and love and celebrate. Some days there were tears as I walked back to the car after emptying the water from my milk jug (the best way to water, as Grandma MacDonald always said). Some days there was laughter as the mosquitoes chased us away. Some days there was silence. Some days there was frustration. But every day? A chance to reflect.
Because like it or not, summer still goes on, despite what happens in our lives. And this summer was no different. Even thought Mom #2 wasn't there, Jack, the littlest grandneighbor, still wanted to put the solar-powered turtle lights in the garden and check to make sure they were working. Even though that's what he and Mom #2 did last year. He had no idea the rush of pain and love and happiness that would bring to several of us. So we did it and we smiled and laughed and watched as he petted the turtles.
Even though Mom #2 wasn't there we still lit the bonfire and roasted the marshmallows and petted Cyd the one-eyed, three-legged dog when Ben brought him over. Even though Mom #2 wasn't there we slapped on our patriotic-colored shirts and ate too much and played bocce ball and played with sparklers on the 4th of July. Life moves quickly and you have to join in, there's really no choice. You just do it.
It was a good summer. A perfect summer. Sure there were rainy days, sure there were storms but the sun shone so much and the flowers bloomed so brilliantly and the grass was so green it made up for it all. There were Faygo slurpees and ice cream birthday cakes and French macaroons and crafts and projects and rides on country roads and movies and baseball games. There was fishing and golf and water balloon fights and jumping on the trampoline and giggles and uncontrollable laughter and most of all? Love.
And even though I'm not watering them every day anymore, or deheading them, or commenting that grandpa's pot seems to be blooming the most, the geraniums will stay with me. The routine has not been forgotten. The reflection has not been lost. Because even though life moves on, we can take a moment to look back. At everything. To smile. To cry. To remember. To celebrate. To love.
