The Q life Grief Journey

Friday is the first day of spring.

It’s a day I’ve always looked forward to.

The season of fresh starts, warmer days, and new life. A time to get my hands in the dirt, plant flowers, and begin again after the stillness of winter. I usually feel a quiet excitement building as it approaches.

But this spring feels different.

Quinten isn’t here.

And that changes everything.

I find myself thinking about all the little things we used to do this time of year. Helping him pick out flowers for his porch. Watching him carefully choose just the right ones, like each plant had to speak to him before he brought it home.

He loved that porch.

And he loved those flowers.

This year, I’ll still plant my flowers.

But I’ll do it differently.

I’ll do it for him.

I feel a quiet determination in my heart to make my flower garden better than ever this year. Not out of obligation, but out of love. Because I know how much he would enjoy it. Because I can still picture his smile, still hear his voice, still feel his presence in those moments.

Spring also brings another memory.

Fishing season.

Quinten and James loved their fishing trips. They would load up the truck with all their gear, stop at the local bait shop for worms and minnows, and head straight to their favorite spot.

It didn’t take long before my phone would start lighting up with pictures.

Quinten, sitting at the water’s edge.
Rod in hand.
A peaceful smile on his face.

Those were some of his happiest days.

There was something about being near the water that brought him peace. And something about being with James that made those moments even more meaningful.

I hold onto those memories tightly now.

Because that’s what I have.

Memories.

And while there are moments when that reality feels heavy, there are also moments when I feel something else.

Peace.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because I know, without a doubt, that Quinten truly lived.

He lived boldly.
He lived happily.
He lived without complaint, even in the face of something as relentless as cancer.

He didn’t wait for perfect conditions to enjoy life.

He simply lived it.

And maybe that’s what this spring is trying to teach me.

That even in grief, life continues to offer moments worth living.

That even in loss, there is still beauty waiting to be noticed.

That even in heartbreak, there is still purpose.

So this spring, I will plant my flowers.

I will remember the porch.
The fishing trips.
The pictures on my phone.

And I will try, in my own way, to live as Quinten did.

Boldly.

Happily.

Fully.

Because if there’s one thing he showed me, it’s this:

Life is meant to be lived, even when it’s hard.

And love doesn’t end with a season.

It carries forward.