Serendipitous Girl

  I navigated these last six months learning to function after losing pieces of myself. It happened all at once and a little bit at a time. How do you grieve someone who was just as much a part of you and your life as he wasn't? Early on, I read, "There is no going without goodbye." I felt those words deep within my soul. He isn't really gone, he is just living his life without me in it. I had already learned to live my life that way, so it was comfortable. Easy, almost. Or was it? Today, I read this as we finally laid my father's remains to rest. I want to thank all of you for loving my father, Sue, and me enough to be here. Even if there were moments when the emotionally stoic teddy bear that was my father didn't outwardly show it, each of you meant something to him.  These past four months have felt surreal. When someone we love dies, it seems like the world should stop or at least pause to give us time to process and catch our breath. Instead, everything f...

Over the last eighteen months, I came to honestly know a man I could only dream of having in my life—my Dad. Finally, he wasn't just the Dad I wanted, but the Dad I needed. He had come and gone too many times. Now, it didn't matter why he had returned to our lives. It just mattered that he did. Through our countless hours of conversation, I finally understood why he was the man he was, which made coming to terms with our sometimes volatile relationship much easier. Yesterday, my Mom said, "Take time to process and feel what you need to feel." I told her, "I need a month or two alone in a tiny, secluded beach town where I can just listen to music and write." I've been through enough death and grief to understand that the process is anything but linear. This past week, going through my Dad's things has been a rollercoaster of emotions. He saved everything. At first, it was almost annoying, but I couldn't find it in me to be annoyed—only sad.  I kno...

The day after finding out my Dad had passed, my best friend checked in on me, "How are you holding up?" My answer was simple, "I'm not." I told him, "I am blocked. I can't write." A few minutes later, I scrolled through my music library and found my muse—the words and music of David Gilmour and Rodger Waters. As the music of Shine on You Crazy Diamond began, the tears and words magically flowed like a fountain. Today, we celebrate and remember the man, the myth, the legend—my Dad, Bill Garrett. My Dad was an enigma. Quirky even. He marched to the beat of his own drum, living life on his own terms—even until the very end. I've met many stubborn individuals in my life, but I can unequivocally say he was the most headstrong, stubborn person I ever knew. It was a blessing and a curse all in one. We often laughed about nature vs nurture and our shared traits. He was proud to claim he generously shared that headstrong trait with me and his grandchild...

  So much has transpired in the thirteen months since the gift of time ran out, and we buried my Mommom. Life has been busy, and in many ways, I am grateful because it forced me to keep moving. Each time I was still, it seemed to allow the grief to take a stronghold. Last year at her funeral, multiple family members and friends approached me, reiterating the same sentiment, "You were her Kellie." It was heartwarming to hear those words. For some time, it felt as if she was not truly gone. I guess it makes sense. She always lived less than an hour away. Except for the time I lived with her, then moved around the corner for a few years. But that all was a lifetime ago. Today, our family is waking up to a different world. The house, which was our family home for over sixty-five years, is officially someone else's residence as of four o'clock yesterday. 1407 Stengel Avenue. It was not much by today's standards, but her door was always open, and you always knew you w...

Today marks one year since the gift of time ran out, and we lost my Mommom to cancer.  Not long ago, I was advised, "The first year after losing a loved one is the most difficult." With the loss of a loved one, life abruptly changes. It is categorized. Suddenly there is a before, and there is an after. Time becomes measured in weeks, months, and years. I assume it is accurate to an extent. There are first holidays and special occasions without the person we love. Yet, it is the little day-to-day moments missing from our life, which become the most significant reminders of the poignantly palpable void. Brady and I discussed a conversation between him and his boyfriend, Mario, about getting a pet. While Mario is an animal lover, his hesitation stems from growing attached and the pet passing. Brady's reply was simple, "It's the circle of life." I was telling Chris a few days ago, "I wish I could go back to a year ago, to immediately after my Mommom passed....