It's been a month and it's almost Chistmas

I am not one for tying grief to dates. I mean the first birthday they weren't here to celebrate. The first Christmas their sock wasn't hung.

The first year that they weren't here anymore.

The second year. The fifth and so on.

But it's been a month.

It feels like yesterday and forever ago.

It's easy enough in the beginning. Duty takes over. From the get go there's calls to make, emails to send, a funeral to plan, clothes to collect, and clothes to buy when geography comes into play.

There's an obituary to write. Both my biggest honour and the worst thing I've ever put into words.

There's trips to the mall and trips to the grocery store. Tabloids to stare at while standing in line contemplating those "you never know what someone is going through, be kind" memes on Facebook.

At that moment, you are the meme.

There's wakes and food coming from every corner.

The funeral.

The burial was a week later, because of the cremation. I told my brother in law that I was glad it was the following week, because it was one more thing we could do.

One more way we could be there for her.

The burial came and went. She is to the left of our father, which is perfect. She's left handed and he's right handed.

We went into a cabin in the woods for four days during which I thought all kind of catharsis would happen. Turns out you can't will that. I was better for it, but not even close to what I wanted.

Because I was still horribly sad and horribly emotional and weirdly sentimental.

I am not a sentimental person. Stuff is stuff. I bought the perfume she used to wear. I don't even like perfume.  I gave it to her daughter. I cried when I deposited her last CPP cheque in her bank account earlier this week (FYI the government will pay you for the full month in which you die) and I've cried a bunch of other times.

Crying is okay, there's no shame in it. I've been told that a lot. Mostly when crying. But it's on good authority, sadly from far too many people who have known far too much loss. Grief is a representation of how much you cared.

But it's not the only measure. My sister had a zeal for life. She was exceptionally kind and exceptionally positive. She lived in the here and now and she embraced the act of living as fully as anyone could, no matter an ever growing list of limitations.

I was Christmas shopping yesterday and I came across a pewter ring that said "celebrate life". Foreign sentimentality reared its head again and I bought it. It was $9 and it's staining my pinky black, but that's okay too. I have clear nail polish to coat it with when I get around to it and soap until then.

It's the message that's important.

Celebrate life.

Don't read this and feel sad for me. For her, yes, but not for me. I've got that covered.  But what you can do is be kind. Be kind for her and be kind for me.

The last time I had Sher out for dinner we went to the Townhouse Pub. There's a couple tight doors to get through and her chair had grown in size with her disability. A bar patron jumped to the occasion. He said it was okay to run over his foot. As with lots of things, it just took backing up and taking a second run at it, but he was there, in the moment, doing all he could to be kind.

There's people grieving the loss of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, husbands, wives, and friends this Christmas.  Let's honour them all by being kind. Everyone will be the better for it.