The Grief Diaries: Part One

Last week, my sister, Emilie, and I spent a long time wandering the LEGO store at the mall near my home. The store is new, much closer than the one in Raleigh. We were greeted by a store worker who accepted our polite dismissal of assistance without a drop in his smile.

An avid LEGO builder, Andrew’s creations fill our house. I love the fact that his touch and time were the building blocks of these enduring creations. He enjoyed building, but he also built to decompress, his version of a smoke after a long day, or in my case, a cold Coke. Emilie and I discussed which sets we liked the most (her: Harry Potter Diagon Alley, me: The Botanical Garden), although neither of us has or will ever build one.

Another store worker approached, her chipper manner matching the bright primary colors of the store. She wasn’t willing to let our just looking around be the final word. When she asked me if I liked to build, I gave a weak smile and shook my head no. Would you like to try? I said my brain didn’t work that way, which is true, and she smiled, shrugged, and moved on. After Emilie and I walked and talked a bit longer, we exited the store, and I exhaled, unaware that I’d been holding my breath.

I see many posts with a variation of the sentiment that you never know what someone is going through so be kind, and I guess this is mine. I assume we seemed weird: circling the store, avoiding assistance, purchasing nothing. And yet, as women over 55, I’m aware we probably didn’t even register on most people’s radar. But the LEGO staff is paid to notice us, and they did. Although they were kind, I pictured our interaction being relayed over dinner that evening—the tale of two aimless women, almost rude in their resistance to the LEGO brand of optimism.  

I didn’t feel the need to say it was my son Andrew’s birthday. It would have been his 26^th, and it was his first birthday after his death. It was also my first time in a LEGO store in my new life, the one where I’m learning to be Andrew’s mom from afar. As we browsed, I pointed out sets he’d built, ones I thought he’d have liked, ones I might have purchased for this very birthday. I might have seemed rude, and I still care about that, although not as much as I used to.

Before you go…I didn’t plan to write this post. It came to me this morning, and although I have been working since June on a post about visiting a farm, this is what you are getting. Thanks for being kind and reading this.