Three years ago, I was in the final three days of packing in preparation of boarding a plane, and for two and a half months, moving in with my son and his family. It was an unhappy move born of necessity.

Nearly a year before, my husband of 37 years shockingly died, and I stopped eating or wanting to live. Eventually seeing the concern in my son’s eyes at my weight loss and grief, I’d agreed to eat at least one nutritious meal a day, and I honored that promise, despite the fact that my desire to live didn’t return. I also had to accept that I could no longer care for our house, large garden, and flock of chickens, despite the kind and generous help dear neighbors lent.

So, with the help of good friends and family, I packed up our lives, sold and gave away things I knew I would never need again, sent my flock down the street to the neighbors who already loved them, and prepared to move to a state I’d never set foot in, imposing on beloveds just starting their own new journey.

I was bat shit crazy during that time, and what I packed and had sent to me bore that out in sometimes hilarious ways. I received a box I’d apparently insisted to a stalwart and actively supportive friend absolutely had to be sent directly to me and could not go to storage. Upon opening it and to my surprise, I discovered a bag of coffee and the coffee pot I had swaddled like precious newborns, as if I was moving to a cave far from civilization, where coffee was scarce, Starbucks didn’t exist, and my coffee drinking son would have no means to boil water to pour over those invaluable, crushed brown beans! We laughed uproariously, but I also began to realize how crazy in grief I’d been, especially since unlike hubs, I wasn’t even a regular coffee drinker.

My son and his family made me comfortable, and I was deeply touched by how loving they were when they’d just moved into their house two weeks before my arrival. I was a miserable, walking heap of wreckage, trying to act like a human being and failing. I’d cry between my online classes, forcing myself to “grip it up” and attend to my students, themselves traumatized from Covid lockdown, and sometimes personal loss. I decided to start each class with a few minutes for them to show me their pets or artwork, so that we all relaxed, shared a smile, and bonded as a community, making an anthropological concept a reality, despite being unable to be together. I hope my attention before, during, and after classes was as helpful to them as it was for me, because those hours were the only ones when I could consistently stay dry eyed and attentive to the needs of others.

Being with family made that possible, and gradually began to bring me back to life. My grandchild returned laughter and joy to my heart and gave me reasons to want to curb my furious anguish and adopt the patience and kindness her Abuelo and my own grandfather always displayed with children. With an inner chuckle, I began thinking “What would Ray do?” a Zen koan, reminding me of the zillion times he’d calmed my quick temper and had me rethink first volatile responses. He did it through his inherent calm, while my son did so via logic. Both have saved me many a time, and I thank them, my father and grandfather, all kind, and patiently loving men, along with mi hermosa nuera, an embodiment of loving patience. A good counselor, friends, and knowledge of things the women of my family survived all combined to get me through those hideous months.

Four years since his death, the pain hasn’t subsided nor the tears stopped. I miss mi Rey every single morning, throughout my days and nights, and have mostly accepted that I always will. I’m less obviously crazy, more able to enjoy bits of my life. Most importantly, I’m acutely aware that I am still surrounded in love, and I know for sure that the truly greatest gift really is “just to love and be loved in return”

Like the Dude, I abide.