An hour ago I heard it, the all too familiar sound of the tractor coming up the drive. For one split second, just one tiny fraction of a moment, my heart skipped a beat. I forgot, in that second that the John Deere was being returned from being serviced this morning and I thought, oh how my heart thought it was him.

Fifty-five minutes ago, I steeled myself at the back door. Having quickly realized my mistake, in the few short moments it took the man to drive the tractor up the rest of the drive, I relived the loss but I shoved the heartbreak down. I walked outside and held a conversation about the repairs without giving any signs of internal struggle but the moment I closed the mudroom door behind me, I lost it.

For forty minutes, I sat on the couch with my back to the front windows, not wanting to see the vacant yellow seat, wishing beyond words that he would walk through that damn kitchen door. It is really something how sounds, glimpses, and even smells can take our hearts to memories.

Five minutes ago, I pulled myself up off the couch. I wiped my tear-streaked face and I grabbed the barn key from the cabinet. I sat on the pew in the mudroom and put my boots on and I opened the door and faced the empty yellow seat. I sat down in the place he spent so many happy hours and I drove the tractor to the barn.

Grief means losing our loved ones over and over and over again. It means reliving the loss, feeling once again the heartbreak. It means facing the emptiness repeatedly. Ask anyone who’s lost someone, “What was the last thing that made you think of your loved one?” and they will tell you. Their loss might be fresh or years gone by, but they will know, there was something, just the other day, something that stopped them and reminded them of the person who they still love.

An hour ago, I was going about my weekly chores without a thought and perhaps in another hour I will be back to the tasks on my list once again, but in the middle is the rollercoaster of loss and mourning. Someday the peaks of my joy will surpass the depths of my sorrows, someday I will be able to move more quickly through the downturns, but for now, I am grateful for the slightest abatement, the smallest of upturns to bring me back to even ground. For now, knowing that every memory that has brought me to my knees, there has been a life force just strong enough to bring me back on my feet again. For now, this is enough.