What Memorial Day Means

Whatever this day means for you, let it mean what it means.

Memorial Day means something different for everyone.

For some, it is the most sacred day of the year. The day they fold a flag in their mind. The day they sit with the photograph of someone who served and did not come home. The day the country pauses for the loss they have been carrying alone the rest of the year.

For others, it is the day they remember a veteran spouse who came home, lived a full life, and is still missed every single day.

For some, it is the start of summer. The first long weekend. The grill coming out. Corn on the cob. Watermelon dripping down a chin. Water balloons in the backyard with the grandkids screaming and laughing and falling on the grass.

For some, it is all of those things at once.

And for some, it is just another Monday without him.

There is no one right way to feel today.

I am writing this because I think widows can get caught between what a day is supposed to mean and what it actually means to us. The world tells us a holiday looks one way. Our hearts tell us something else. And we can spend the whole day feeling like we are doing it wrong.

You are not doing it wrong.

If today is heavy because of who you lost in service to this country, that grief is yours and it is sacred. If today is heavy because your person is missing from the lawn chair and the picnic table and the grill, that grief is yours too. If today is heavy for both reasons, or for reasons you cannot quite name, all of it counts.

For me, Memorial Day has always been the start of summer. The first holiday of the warm season. The first long weekend where the family gathers and the food comes out and the kids run around the yard. Gary loved it. He loved the grill. He loved a cold drink in a lawn chair. He loved water balloons more than the grandkids did.

The first summer after he died, I did not know what to do with any of it. The chair next to mine was so loud in its emptiness. The grill in my hands felt wrong. The whole season was starting, and he was not coming with us into it.

Now, four and a half years later, summer still arrives without him. The grill still gets used. The grandkids still scream. The watermelon still tastes good. And he is still missing from every bit of it.

Both things are true at the same time. The joy and the ache. The watermelon and the empty chair. That is the shape of widow summer. That is the shape of widow holidays. That is the shape of pretty much every day after.

So whatever this day means for you, let it mean what it means.

If you want to be at the cookout, go. If the cookout feels like too much, skip it. If you want to talk about your person all day, talk about them. If you want to be quiet, be quiet. If you cry into a paper plate full of pasta salad, that is okay. If you laugh until you almost forget for a second, that is okay too.

Whatever this day brings for you, give yourself permission to feel the feels.

There is no right way to do today.

There is just you, and your person, and the world turning around you whether you are ready for it or not.

You are still here. You are still loving them. That is enough for today.

If today is heavy, and you would like a quiet space to talk about what this day is asking of you, I would be glad to sit with you. Today might not be the day to schedule a call, and that is okay. The door is open whenever you are ready. You can book a free Holding the Ember conversation any time, this week, next month, whenever the moment is right.

For now, take a breath. Take care of you. I am thinking of you today.