The Sweetness of Remembering

Every year it happens before I realize what month it is.

I sleep a little later. My energy fades. The world grows quieter somehow. Sad songs linger longer than they should. Everything feels heavier, as though a blanket has settled over me.

Self-awareness eventually kicks in, and I wonder why I feel off.

Then I glance at the calendar.

It's June.

The anniversary of my son Tyler's death falls on June 23, but somehow the heaviness arrives long before the date itself. My body seems to know before my mind does.

Years ago, I thought healing meant the blanket would eventually disappear.

It didn't.

But over time, gratitude settled in beneath it.

Gratitude for twenty-seven years with Tyler, a beautiful soul.

He had what people call a bigger-than-life personality. I've never found a better description for him, though lately I've found myself wondering what it actually means.

Maybe it means being the voice and light in a room that naturally draws people in.

Maybe it means a bear hug that leaves no doubt you are loved.

Maybe it means a little boy reading beneath the covers with a flashlight.

Maybe it means that boy who grew into a chef, a leader, a photographer, and an adventurer with a goal of hiking all of Colorado's fourteeners.

Whatever it means, Tyler had it.

Even now, years later, he still has a way of showing up when I least expect him.

Usually in my kitchen.

I'll be standing at the cutting board preparing dinner. A carrot. A pepper. An onion.

The knife moves across the board.

And then I hear him.

"Mom, chop, don't saw."

I smile and nod.

I blink and it's Tyler, standing beside me in the kitchen.

I can hear his voice and the belly laugh that filled every room he entered. I can see the mischievous twinkle in his eye. And for a moment, I can feel one of those bear hugs that left no doubt I was loved.

There is an ache in moments like these.

But there is joy, too.

I spent a long time mourning what I lost.

Now, when these moments arrive, I find myself grateful for what I had.

Twenty-seven years. Thousands of conversations. Countless bear hugs. Millions of snapshots, memories, and emotions.

Every now and then, he still finds a way to show up.

And for those perfect bites, I am forever grateful.