It’s two years today since my father died. The sting of his absence more intensely felt as another Christmas comes without him. He pretended to be a humbug as he’d call himself, only putting one ornament onto the tree, claiming “Bah Humbug” at every chance he got, but he loved Christmas. The little reindeer teddy bear holding a saxophone blasting out “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer” his favorite. Pure joy and delight emanated from his every cell watching that old reindeer. It was touching and silly and fun watching him take such pure pleasure from that reindeer playing his song. My father, it turns out, was more sensitive than he’d want to let on.
The songs playing on the car radio as I ran errands recently had me joyfully singing along in one moment while in the very next crying with the ache of missing him. This second year of grieving has its own uniqueness. I have seen it in my work with clients who reach out so often in the second or third years following their loss and I have noticed it now in myself. It’s not that this second-year anniversary is harder than the first. It’s just different in a way the first wasn’t. I think the year of firsts has its own particular specific quality. Each first an excruciatingly painful process for many. Events that we can only push through barely noticing anything but the pain and our own need to get to the other side of it, relieved with each passing first. There’s a certain kind of numbness in that year of firsts. A numbness that in this second year starts to give way to a settling of a deep in-the-bones ache of sadness. The sadness that comes purely from the missing of them. A sadness that for most of us is one we carry alone through our days, as the song playing in the grocery store, reaches deep into our hearts pulling that memory from long ago into this moment as we fight back the tears. Or the smells of holiday treats baking at a friend’s home touching us in the most gentle way with the bittersweet comfort of sharing a favorite holiday treat. This year we are no longer numb. Instead acutely aware of the emptiness in our hearts. Moments of deep sadness coupled with moments of laughter while we remember.
A joyous yet melancholy season for so many in a culture that no longer acknowledges our loss, our pain, our grief. It is in acknowledging the truth of this year that I hope brings some comfort to others feeling alone on their journey. So, wherever you are in your own grieving, the first year, second or fiftieth, I hope you will do something that honors not only your loved one, but yourself as well. And remember to hold onto all the memories and love you have while making space for creating new ones. For all who are reading this may you find peace on this path and know you are not alone this holiday season. 
