This summer, we’re being blessed by a whole ton of experiences.

Camps, and trips, and lovely friends who let us borrow beach and mountain houses. Time at the River. Work travel and friends and family in town.

Summer is flying by.

I spend slightly less time sitting in grief when I’m busy. It’s almost like I have to schedule time to let it out. My therapist taught me a new thing about tears – and I like it so I’m not going to fact check it. (You are welcome to, just don’t tell me if it’s wrong.) She said that there are 2 kinds of tear ducts – the kind that keeps your eyes moist or that engage when you cut onions or have allergies.

Then you have the emotional kind that actually stimulate hormones to relieve stress and help you feel more calm.

This makes me feel much better about crying. A purpose! A reminder that, not only will I eventually stop crying, but that I might even feel a bit of relief afterwards! Good job, tears!

I still hate crying, I just hate it a little less.

Beyond the scheduled moments – usually in the evening after C has gone to bed and often outside – I’m also finding my grief to be a bit of a sneaky minx. It pops up at inconvenient moments like swim meets. Or on the bus home from a work trip. Public crying is a whole new kind of awful, but man, it’s pretty hard to contain sometimes.

Conor is doing OK. He’s still tender – not as much about his dad explicitly, but it’s like he’s walking around with an exposed nerve. You can just barely nudge it and it triggers a much bigger than expected reaction, or actually he shuts down. He doesn’t process big feelings outwardly – he just sort of turns out the light.

He’s still finding refuge in video games and in his hyper-fixation songs. (This week it is “What’s Left of the Flag” and “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” and “Lean On Sheena” and y’all THOSE LYRICS) I know I should be more careful to limit things like screen time and junk food, but honestly, I just want to zone out on tiktok sometimes and eat cookies, so it feels a little crappy not to afford him the same courtesy.

I bought a little urn for Preston yesterday. He wants most of his remains in the Pungo River, but I’m finding it incredibly difficult to not have his ashes close, so even if I do eventually spread them, I’ll keep some saved in this little pottery dish. I got myself a matching coffee cup. (I’m not sure the ladies at the little store in Boone found my jokes about us “enjoying morning coffee together” as entertaining as I did, but I was glad to be with my friend Vicki who totally got it.)

Preston always really liked pottery. He had a rather extensive collection of mugs and often chose them as his souvenirs when we traveled. He got a beautiful one in Ireland, and not long after we brought it home, I accidentally knocked over a beer bottle (I am often oblivious to the space around me) and it chipped the top.

Of course, he was fine with it. But I was DEVASTATED. I cried and cried and cried. (I was about 7 months pregnant with Conor, so we were experiencing a whole new Sarah on the emotional front.)

And Preston, knowing me very well, wrapped me up, walked me to the car, and took my round little self to Target, thus beginning our, “PUT IT IN THE CART” tradition of better feelings through capitalism.

We walked all around the store, and if I said, “oooh!” at any point… “Put it in the cart.”

Furry brown blanket? “Put it in the cart.”

Absolutely duplicative water bottle? “Would it make you happy? Put it in the cart.”

Snacks. “In they go.”

As it turns out, there couldn’t possibly be enough cute throw pillows to make the hurt stop, but I do find myself genuinely cheered by the thought of him walking through a store with me saying, “I mean, if it will make you smile, you should do it.”

And even though we have to do it sad, we’ll do the things and hunt the dopamine and the oxytocin with trips and visits and shopping screens and movies and sometime crying.

P.S. Here’s your reminder to RSVP to P’s “memorial service” that will not be at all a “service” but will be fun. We’ve rented out the Pour House on July 9th (P’s Bday) from 12-4, but I suspect most folks will be dropping in and out. Some friends are going to share some tunes and we might tell a story or two.

I’m absolutely pulling out my violin because I want to give everyone those nice emotional tear duct hormones. Be warned.