Thirty-seven

I lost my husband and my brother in 2013.  An unlucky number.  An unlucky year.  They were both 37.  One took his own life.  The other tried so hard to get to stay.  One left three children fatherless.  The other left a legacy.  My children lost the two most influential male figures in their lives within 8 months of each other, seemingly in one fell swoop.  And even still, as their mother, I am reeling from it.

It is hard not to be angry.  At Life.  At the Universe.  At the one who made the choice to go, at the cancer who took the one who wanted to stay.  It is hard to understand any of it.  I won’t pretend that I do.  And I don’t believe that anybody really does.  And anbody that says that they do is probably selling something.  But that is okay.  I am okay with not understanding.  I really am okay not having the answers.  I am okay with feeling it and going with it and learning from it and leaning into it, at trying to find the peace in the pause, and going with that.  Because, really, what more can I do?

But what I do know is that you live, and you love, and you play and you laugh and you cry. You breathe and you soak it all in.  And you take risks and you love and you marvel at it all.  And you feel and you live and you love and you laugh and you cry some more.  Because you must.  That is how you carry on.  That is your purpose.  To live while you can.

Is there meaning in it?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that they were both 37.  And they are both gone, but never forgotten…