I was in the car with my husband talking about restaurants and foods we like, I mentioned Falafel.   I like Falafel.  Our son introduced it to me.  He introduced me to a lot of foods and insisted I should like them.  My husband started laughing.
“Remember when you and he made Falafel?” he asked, “You all made the biggest mess.”
“We did.” I said smiling.  I remembered grinding up chickpeas, making dough for pita bread. I remember fresh parsley and tahini.   I remember the little patties coming apart as we tried to fry them.  I remember the spongy dough springing back every time we tried to roll out a pita and then the hours baking them a few at a time on the baking stone in the oven.
By the end of the process we had Falafel.  It didn’t take nearly as much time to eat them as it did to figure out to make them and get everything to stay together.   Figuring out how to make everything stay together is a tough process in life.
Faced with a whole list of ingredients that I don’t recognize and don’t particularly like now and perhaps never will – I am stuck in what I feel is a mess most times.  There are other people trying to help if in no other way than just standing by – lending moral support.  There is no recipe, no clear direction, no desirable end product.
I do have my memories.  My husband and I have lots of memories.
Our daughter was home the other day to stay for a visit.  Sitting in the den together, watching something on Public Television we remained quietly together.  I had that flash of recognition of how normal this time seemed and yet how alien.  The missing man was so obvious.  The missing ingredient.  In that moment without meaning to ,everything tips, the world tilts and the fragile nature of every situation is exposed.   I feel the need to grab it all and bundle it up because of fear and the truth about how quickly these moments pass.
There is dull pain and sharp pain and quick fluctuations between the two.  There are triggers that no one except my husband and daughter and I know that color our view of the world. I liken it to a web that is connected and spun around me and every move tugs at a different strand.
He is everywhere and he is nowhere.  His voice is gone and I so desperately want to hear it.
Each new season breaks my heart.
We laugh over sweet memories and then we settle into thoughts of how much we miss him.  How desperately we miss him.
It is a baffling routine that takes me through the motions of the day, punctuated with tears I cannot stop.  There is very little that I do that does not pull at one of the strands attached to a memory of him.
One of our local restaurants features falafel as one of its lunch specials.  It is very good, and my son would have really liked it.  I eat it because I like it and because of him and for him.  There is no avoiding, no sidestepping, no filter, no bargains struck in grief.  I make no excuses and will not deny the deep bond that still exists because of little things and big things we shared.
I still cannot believe he is gone.  It does not seem possible.  And yet it is almost Spring and I find myself looking for him, listening for him, longing  . . .