The Q life Grief Journey

Today is the first day of fall.

Quinten would have loved it.

Fall was his favorite time of year. He looked forward to the cooler temperatures, the changing leaves, and being able to spend more time outdoors without the heaviness of summer heat.

And after the extreme heat we’ve had this year, I have been looking forward to fall too.

Maybe more than usual.

I’ve caught myself watching for it.

Thinking about cooler mornings.

Looking forward to fall decorations.

Thinking about the meals I want to make when the temperatures finally drop.

Waiting for that first day when you step outside and can actually feel that something has changed.

And somewhere in all that anticipation, I had a thought I hadn’t really considered before.

Maybe Quinten loved fall because I taught him to love it.

The Things We Give Our Children Without Knowing

When my children were little, I made a big deal out of the changing seasons.

Fall meant shopping for new clothes.

It meant decorating the house.

It meant deciding what everyone would be for Halloween.

I loved Halloween when the kids were young. I loved the creativity of it, the planning, the excitement, and seeing them dressed up.

Sometimes I would sit at my sewing machine and make their costumes myself.

At the time, I wasn’t trying to create some great childhood memory.

I was just being Mom.

Fall also meant a change in our kitchen.

The lighter meals of summer began giving way to the foods I have always loved making when the weather turns cool.

Stews.

Casseroles.

Warm, comforting meals that filled the house with smells that told you something good was coming.

Food that warmed hearts and tummies.

Back then, I don’t think I gave any of this much thought.

It was simply what we did.

But now I wonder what all of those little things looked like through the eyes of my children.

Maybe they saw a mother who became excited when fall arrived.

Maybe my excitement became theirs.

Maybe somewhere between the Halloween costumes, new fall clothes, decorations, cool evenings and warm dinners, I was teaching them that this was a season worth looking forward to.

Maybe that’s part of why Quinten loved it so much.

And I can’t tell you how much I love that thought.

Looking Back From Here

There are things I see differently now that I’m older.

And there are things I see differently because Quinten is gone.

Loss has made me look backward at my life in ways I never did before.

I revisit ordinary moments constantly.

Things that seemed insignificant at the time now feel almost sacred.

A Saturday dinner.

A trip to the store.

A favorite meal.

A Halloween costume.

A changing season.

When your children are little, you’re so busy raising them that you don’t always realize you’re creating their childhood at the same time.

You’re just trying to get everyone dressed.

Fed.

Where they need to be.

You’re buying shoes because they’ve outgrown the last pair again.

You’re trying to figure out how you’re going to turn some crazy Halloween idea into a costume.

You’re standing at the stove making dinner.

You don’t necessarily stop and think:

They may remember this for the rest of their lives.

But they do.

And sometimes, apparently, they carry those little pieces of us into adulthood.

Now I Watch Whitney

I think about this more often now because I get to watch Whitney with one-year-old Everett.

There are moments when I look at her mothering him and suddenly see myself from so many years ago.

A young mother creating a childhood without even realizing she’s doing it.

She’s building traditions.

Creating excitement.

Introducing him to things he may someday love.

Making memories he won’t consciously remember but that will become part of the feeling of home.

And watching them together has given me a perspective I couldn’t have had when my own children were small.

Back then, I was living it.

Now I get to stand outside of it and understand how precious it was.

Sometimes I want to tell her:

Pay attention to this.

But I also know she can’t possibly hold onto every moment.

None of us can.

That’s part of what makes life both beautiful and heartbreaking.

We don’t know which ordinary Tuesday will someday become something we would give anything to experience again.

I Wonder What Else I Gave Him

The thought that I might have helped create Quinten’s love of fall has made me wonder about other things.

How much of what our children love begins with us?

Not because we intentionally teach it.

But because they watch us.

They absorb our excitement.

They notice what makes us happy.

They remember how home felt.

Maybe Quinten didn’t just love cool weather and changing leaves.

Maybe fall carried a feeling for him.

Home.

Family.

Comfort.

Anticipation.

Mom making something warm for dinner.

Halloween coming.

Life slowing down after summer.

Maybe when he grew up and felt that first cool breeze of the season, some small part of him remembered all of that.

I hope so.

Because it means I gave my son something I didn’t even know I was giving him.

Fall Without Quinten

Of course, fall is different now.

Everything is.

There is joy in seeing the season arrive, but there is also that familiar ache.

Because every beautiful thing still comes with the thought:

Quinten should be here for this.

He should get another fall.

He should feel that first cool morning.

He should watch the leaves change.

He should spend another afternoon outside.

He should sit down to another warm meal with us.

That’s one of the hardest parts of grief.

The world keeps offering beautiful things to people who are no longer here to experience them.

And those of us who love them notice.

We notice every season they miss.

But maybe there is another way for me to look at it.

Instead of thinking only about all the falls Quinten won’t have, today I’m thinking about all the falls he did have.

The ones when he was a little boy.

The costumes.

The family meals.

The changing leaves.

The cool days.

The excitement.

And all those years later, fall was still his favorite.

There is something incredibly comforting about that.

Maybe This Is How Love Travels

Today, on the first day of fall, I find myself thinking about three generations.

Me, all those years ago, sitting at a sewing machine making Halloween costumes for my children.

Quinten growing up with a love for fall that stayed with him throughout his life.

And now Whitney raising Everett, creating the little traditions and memories that will someday become part of who he is.

Maybe that’s how love travels through a family.

We give our children pieces of ourselves without realizing it.

They carry those pieces forward.

And someday, we catch a glimpse of them being passed to another generation.

I will never know for certain whether I was the reason Quinten loved fall.

Maybe he simply loved cool weather and being outdoors.

But today, I’m allowing myself to believe I had something to do with it.

That somewhere inside his love for this season lived memories of home.

Of childhood.

Of family.

Of me.

And if that’s true, then fall gives me one more way to feel close to my son.

So this year, I’m going to decorate.

I’m going to enjoy the changing leaves.

I’m going to make the stews and casseroles.

I’m going to step outside when that first truly cool morning arrives and breathe it in.

And I’m going to think about Quinten.

Not only because he isn’t here.

But because he was.

And maybe, just maybe, one of the things I gave my son during his 34 years on this earth was something as simple and beautiful as a love for fall.

What a gift it is to realize that perhaps he gave it right back to me.

Happy first day of fall, Q.

I wish you were here to see it.

Walking with love after loss.