I really haven’t had a lot of time lately to feed my TV addiction. Between Dad’s visit and the fact that I’m working on a major piece of writing for work, I’ve barely squeezed in an episode or two of The Americans. In one scene I did watch last night, Gabriel, the “handler” of the two Soviet spies who are the main characters, reaches out to the mother of a woman who was whisked away from DC to the USSR when her status passing information to the Soviets was compromised. One day she just disappeared, or the KGB disappeared her, and her family had no idea what happened to her. Gabriel gets on a pay phone (it’s 1985 or thereabouts) and says to her mother:
“I’m calling about your daughter. She’s fine, she’s doing well, she’s being taken care of by people who respect her very much. She’ll always be taken care of. She wants you to know that she loves you and misses you very much.”
I had quite a cry after this scene. I really wish I would get a call like this about Sarah. Not that I want her to be living in Russia, or that I think she was passing classified information to Putin. But I just want someone to pick up the phone, give me a quick call, and let me know that she’s okay, taken care of, and –alive and well? I guess that’s really ridiculous, isn’t it?
Psychology Today helpfully let me know this morning that 47 to 82 percent of grieving people have spontaneous sensory experiences during bereavement. I’m not sure how they came up with this exact percentage. What they mean is, when you are grieving, you tend to interpret sensory experiences like getting goosebumps, or the lights in your house flickering, or deer appearing on your lawn, as visitations from your dead loved one. Even though you know you are probably acting like a twelve year-old reading a list of “connections” between the Kennedy and Lincoln assassinations.
There’s a drawer in our kitchen that will not stay shut anymore. When I come down in the early mornings to make coffee, it’s almost always sticking out part way. It’s the drawer we keep our Saran Wrap and aluminum foil and baggies in. We’ve tried to fix it several times and we even had a handyman out to see if there was something wedged behind it. But it just pushes itself out. This morning when I came down around 4 a.m., I decided it was a sign from Sarah. She wants me to know she is wrapped around my heart and I am wrapped around hers. Of course, Max is sealed there too. We are all wrapped up together forever, nice and tight.
The First Year Without Sarah 