Grief is a funny thing. Except it isn’t.

Scrapbook Page - Bridget
Scrapbook Page – Bridget (Photo credit: meglet127)

You can go for days, weeks, months with no episodes. You are back to life as usual, feeling like you did the hard work to adjust to your new normal. Usually this new normal is a rearranged normal, a normal that for a time at least, is meant to cover a gaping hole in your life. A deceased mother or father. A failed marriage, perhaps.

And then, suddenly, usually in a very inconvenient and unexpected place, grief washes over you as a wave.  Almost a literal wave, because you’re knocked off guard and it’s just there. Over you, under you, holding you down. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

It sounds a bit melodramatic, but I think if you’re a person who feels deeply (and even if you’re not), chances are grief strikes in similar fashion. It’s one of the great equalizers. CEOs and factory workers may live in different worlds but grief shows no socioeconomic bias. It’s a punch in the gut regardless.

For me, taking my son to physical therapy at a rehabilitation facility has opened up new chords of grief. From a well I thought had dried up.

I was in the bathroom, of all places, washing my hands, when it hit me. The first wave. It was déjà vu in the strongest sense of the word. The restroom was identical, really, to the one in the rehabilitation facility in which my father spent his last weeks. And it seemed I was back there, a little less than a year ago, washing my hands. I felt again the desperation of knowing it was our last Father’s Day together. The awful and yet comforting juxtaposition of the ordinary with my father’s impending journey into a realm I am not yet allowed to enter—the afterlife.

We had just finished dinner. My father, instead of dining in his room, agreed to eat in the dining room with the other patients. My sons and I were joining him. We sat with a man, Walter, who was eating solid food for the first time in over six months. We applauded his feat, being able to swallow again, and I made polite conversation. The woman at the table behind us kept yelling out random items, sharing with us that she was “breaking out of here” and we were to follow her. She also couldn’t see very well and seemed to think I was a little girl. My dad and I giggled about it back in his room, able to hold our laughter in just long enough that she wouldn’t hear it.

My father ate like a champ, relishing every last bit and asking for a second dessert. I was so grateful because his appetite had failed him in recent days. But I was sad that this was now my father’s dinner table. And that I was usually hundreds of miles away from it, unable to help make it a little sunnier for him.

The next morning, we went to Mass in the chapel—my father, aunt, sister, two sons and I. I sat, tears streaming down my face, for most of the service. I knew I’d not be at Mass again with my dad. I knew how many masses we’d sat through together as I grew up—and this seemed an unfair end to the tradition. Afterward, more family members started to visit to give him his presents and spend time together. I, unfortunately, had to leave to get back home.

And that was it. I was back in the rehab facility where my son was healing a torn hamstring. The memory had taken only seconds, but I felt like I had relived a day in those seconds.

The next visit for my son’s physical therapy, we were about to get on the elevator when we passed a library and sitting area. And again, I was back in time. But this time, I was a young girl running through the halls of the hospital my mother helped to run. When she headed up the school of nursing, there were days I needed to be at work with her after school because she had some deadline to meet.

I usually drove her secretary crazy, spinning in her chair and playing with the intercom/buzzer between their offices. When my mother tired of me doing that, she’d tell me to go amuse myself quietly. The school had a sitting room/library of sorts. They used to hold teas and other functions there. I’d play in the room, pretending to be the grand dame of some country estate, sipping my tea and reading my book. It was very much like the library my sons and I had just passed on our way to the elevator.

And again, that was it. I was back in the present after only a few seconds—but felt like I had relived many afternoons.

The grief comes in the déjà vu. You literally feel you’re back in time. You smell the smells, hear the sounds, feel the feelings. And it taunts you. Because you can’t really go back. And you don’t think you’d really want to. But how did this flesh and blood being who loved you from the moment you were born escape solely into memory? To not hear the voice, smell their scent, feel their hand holding yours—it feels cruel. Harsh.

You realize the new normal will probably always include moments such as these. They are a blessing as well as a curse, I think. And yet, I think a worse fate would be to not be able to relive these moments. To forget so much that going back in time is not an option, even if an unintentional one.

A dear friend that passed away years ago said to me, “Kay, all along I thought my life would really begin when I found the right guy. When my screenplay got published. And now I look back and think, “Oh my God. That WAS my life.” She had terminal breast cancer and only a few months to live.

Yes, grief is a funny thing. A reminder that the memories we’ll want to look back and cherish are NOW. That ordinary family dinner. A Sunday service with your loved ones in the pews next to you. Your child in your office, driving you crazy. It’s now, folks. Make it count. Or don’t. But my takeaway is that it matters. Every moment matters. Even the dull and ugly.

These are the moments grief will bring back. And the alternative is to leave grief empty-handed. But that leaves you empty-handed. I’ll take grief any day.


122 Comments Add yours

  1. This is a very accurate and well written description of the waves of grief that are a part of loss. Thank you for articulating and sharing it so well.

  2. tinkerbellsadventure says:

    Having recently lost my dog I totally know how you feel. I was out hiking this weekend and thought I had got over the feeling of grief, till I found myself on a hillside in fog and then it hit me that I’d been in places like this so often with him. I sat on a rock in the rain and mist and had to cry.
    But then two days later I found myself able to talk to a friend about him without crying.
    I hope your grief passes and memories gradually become less painful.

  3. madgemidgely says:

    You did a fantastic job capturing what can be a reoccurring moment…. I give you props for the self awareness to allow it to be recognized and moved through… may your writing inspire others to observe themselves, and their emotions… and to move through them with such respect as you have captured here. Love light and laughter

    1. candidkay says:

      Such kind words, Mandie. Thanks–that’s why I write. It’s a connection despite the miles . . .

  4. icomania says:

    I am very sorry about your loss. Grief is really hard, i even ask myself sometimes how will i be able to handle the death of a loved one. All i know is time will heal all wounds and I know that someday you’ll be able to smile more and cherish the times you had with your dad.

  5. iamrameys says:

    good article! spot on. may your grief go away fast!

  6. It is difficult losing someone who you love and grief is a process. Something to be experienced, but I wonder if that pain is a growing pain. Growing into a new way of being, a new relationship with that loved one gone, at least from the physical realm. For I do believe that our loved ones are always with us, a part of us in our memories, how we do things, what we enjoy, traditions we have. That love between you never dies, and even if there comes a time when you can’t quite remember a once familiar feature of theirs, that undying love will always keep you connected. Of that I am absolutely certain. I’m glad that you have chosen to cherish every moment of your life. It is truly something we all should do. For indeed, every moment counts. May your pain ease into joy and put a smile on your face every time those memories flow.

    1. candidkay says:

      I believe in that same connection. And that if we pay attention, we can feel when they are near.

  7. swe8tdreamz says:

    Beautifully written words that describes what people go through everyday. Something so simple can bring back so many memories. Good and bad. Just as long as we stay strong and do not let the grief overcome us, we will be OK.

  8. mspaleo says:

    I lost my dad to cancer last year, 17 days after he was diagnosed. It was like a train wreck. The grief is still so strong and added to the worry we have for our mum who lost her own mum only a few months before she lost her beloved husband. I was reflecting the other day how my grief is extension of my deep love for him. That made me feel happy in a strange way, this enormous grief is a real measure of respect for that wonderful man.

    1. candidkay says:

      Not much time to gather thoughts and say goodbye, was there? And yet so much better for your dad than lingering on. Mine did for awhile and kept saying, “This is not a life.” I must say I agreed. I’m sorry for your loss but applaud your bravery in feeling it all.

      1. mspaleo says:

        We were still dealing with the fact he even had cancer. So unexpected,we didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. One minute here, the next gone. Still, he wouldn’t have wanted to suffer so God blessed him I think. So hard, cancer just plain sux. Sorry for your loss too 🙂

  9. reblogged on my primary blog. Just lost my mom, and it hit home.

    1. candidkay says:

      Thank you, Carolyn, for the reblog. I’m so sorry about your mother. I remember feeling numb in those first few weeks as I tried to do the “normal” things. Wishing you peace.

  10. Reblogged this on carolynsworld and commented:
    The examples are different, but this is a good lesson. I just lost Mom, Dad died 6+years ago, and it still hurts.

  11. Absolutely lovely post, congrats on FP – well deserved.

    I see grief as a barometer – a measure of ones heart and soul. Those without the moments you so beautifully capture would be people who deny themselves moments of true understanding.


    1. candidkay says:

      What a beautiful way to put it. I do believe that while a show of grief may be interpreted by some as weakness, it is actually strength. Takes a strong soul to brave the winds and keep going.

      1. Braving the winds feed the soul 🙂

  12. Beautifully written by a dear friend….

  13. cindy dadik says:

    Thank you Krisse, for another insightful blog! As you know, I lost my Dad 6 months ago. I cried the day it happened and had been strong ever since…. until 2 weeks ago. That certain song came on the radio that reminded me of him and the tear gates just opened up! My husband and daughter thought I’d gotten into a car accident or that my mother had died I was so upset. I never want to forget anything about him. I’ll take those songs and reminders of him every day! I sent your blog to my husband and he now understands a little more about the process. Thanks again!

    1. candidkay says:

      I’m so glad my words helped, Cindy. I keep you in my good thoughts and prayers–think of you more often than you know.

  14. My father died 11 years ago and while the grief lessens I can’t say it ever goes away completely, how can it? I hope you won’t think I’m absolutely a mad woman but I do believe that love does not die. I write about getting signs from my dad in my blog. It happened frequently after he first died, (if you are interested read some of the blog or email and now always when I need him or a special event. Love doesn’t die. You haven’t stopped loving your loved ones, they haven’t stopped loving you. I truly believe they know what is happening to us. Sometimes a smell a scent in the air when I am not wearing perfume or anything and I realize it’s the scent of my dad’s cologne…You have to believe in it first. Read or watch videos on Roland Comtois if you are interested. I have seen him in person a few times and have a couple of purple papers. Best wishes, Laurie from

    1. candidkay says:

      I don’t think you’re crazy at all. See my post at: The love remains–we just don’t have the sixth sense to be able to perceive all we need to in order to continue the relationship as we’d like. I’ll look up Roland–not familiar. Thanks for reading and sharing.

  15. Mikels Skele says:

    Grief is just the beginning of a new relationship with the departed. Your post brought back so much for me.. Thanks.

    1. candidkay says:

      What a great way of looking at it. And I do believe there is still a relationship. Our little human pea brains just have a hard time fathoming it.

  16. medic in the suburbs says:

    I’ve tried to write a post like this many times and the words just never worked for me. Even if I were to write one now, I don’t think I’d be able to do such a fine job as you have done here. It’s very well written.

    Having just lost father 8 months ago, I can really relate to how you’re feeling. I still haven’t found a right or wrong way to deal with the grief that just comes out of no where. And reading the comments, it gives me hope to hear that there is a way to deal with the grief. I just haven’t found it yet.

    1. candidkay says:

      Such kind words–thank you. Eight months is not really all that long. I’m coming up on one year and it still feels fresh some days. Just know there are plenty of us out here sharing the journey . . .

  17. Thank you for the beautifully written post, and I’m so sorry for your loss!
    Sometimes you think that you’re done grieving because months go by, years go by and nothing happens, but sometimes it just takes that one moment, that one thought, smell, feeling… to bring you back!
    Although it seems like it’s hard, hold onto it! Those smells that reminds you of your father, the things you used to get together, they will one day make you laugh and smile instead of cry!
    Stay strong! And good luck to your sister and her battle!

    1. candidkay says:

      I certainly hope so. Thank you for the kind words.

  18. Thanks for making us privy to your soul. Very thoughtfully written and wonderfully insightful.

  19. Stuck says:

    Nicely done. I am sorry for your sad loss. Your words speak eloquently to me and so many others because we’ve walked that path. Grief has a language and behavior all its own, and you don’t truly understand that until you have nearly drowned in that wave.

    It does get easier, and the harder parts are farther in between, but I can tell you that, even though it’s been 14 years since I lost my parents and sister, I can still get overwhelmed by those feelings. The rough edges of grief have worn down, but it’s still there, under the surface.

    We do what we have to to get through the worst of it, but in my experience, grief is a great and terrible teacher. I have learned so much about myself and others while going through it. I hope that your journey of loss and healing is punctuated with the bittersweet memories and lessons of grief. Take care of yourself. 😉

    1. candidkay says:

      Thank you for the kind words. Having lost my parents, I thought I was “done” for awhile. But, I have a sister battling late-stage ovarian cancer–so your words about the future are something I’ll hold close.

      1. Stuck says:

        Oh no…I am so sorry to hear that.
        Your story sounds so familiar to me. I lost my next-older sister nearly two years ago, from late-stage cancer that metastasized to her spinal fluid. I had thought I was ‘done’ for awhile, too — but no, I wasn’t. This time around, it was almost harder to lose my sis than losing my folks and other sister.
        I am sorry your sister has to go through that, and I am sorry for you, as well. I’m no expert at this grief thing, just too familiar with it. Cancer is horrible. I will pray for you and your sister, that even if recovery isn’t in her future, at least she will have the love and support she needs — and that you both will find some peace in this ordeal.
        My heart goes out to you.

  20. chris7taylor says:

    Thank you for your words.

  21. Jessica Slavin says:

    Reblogged this on jessicaslavin and commented:
    The bad news is, this is true; the good news is, this is true.

  22. This: These are the moments grief will bring back.
    I love that … and second it. Great job …

    1. candidkay says:

      Thanks–glad it struck a chord with you!

  23. scribblechic says:

    I am often humbled by the balance of extraordinary heartache and joy shuffled between ordinary moments. Beautifully said.

    1. candidkay says:

      I might say the same to you:)

  24. kebibi says:

    My dad died when I was a kid, so my response to all of the chaos was to forget everything: him, the memories, and the pain. It’s only now in college that I’m realizing that this wound is still just as fresh as the day my mom brought me McDonalds and the worst news of my life.

    To say I liked this essay is an understatement. Reading this post, I’ve realized how quickly I’m forgetting the simple things about my dad to a point where he is just an unidentifiable blob in all the memories he was present in. Thanks for this. As embarrassing as it is that I’m tearing up at work, I am of the belief that tears are good once in a while.

    1. candidkay says:

      I was married to a man whose mother died when he was young, and her death was never properly addressed. It leaves scars beyond belief, doesn’t it? Death and McDonald’s just shouldn’t be in the same sentence, let alone the same room. I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you’re able to remember more, as I think that’s part of our healing. The love stays, right? If we let it.

  25. lmarieallen says:

    I can relate so much to your post. I lost my son unexpectedly to a drug overdose 5 years ago, 4 days after my youngest was born. He was only 20, and I knew he was struggling with addiction, but I had no idea it was that bad. I know what you mean about grief popping up at random times. Sometimes I dream about him, and it seems so real that I can feel him giving me a hug. I’d like to think that he comes to visit in those dreams at the times I need a little encouragement to go on in this ” new normal”.

    1. candidkay says:

      I am so sorry. I can’t imagine what losing a son must be like. I am betting he is applauding your bravery in facing your new normal, and the difference that makes in the life of your youngest son. I will keep you in my best thoughts and intentions.

  26. wannabepoet says:

    Reblogged this on wannabepoet and commented:
    My words will do this post no justice – so beautiful and honest.

    1. candidkay says:

      Thank you. Nicest thing you could say to a writer. Glad my words touched you.

  27. catcatchat says:

    Reblogged this on catchatdotme and commented:
    To date I’m pretty lucky in that I haven’t lost many close to me, however I know some pretty special people who have. Being once removed means that you do feel the sadness and loss, however for me half the tears are for my friends. My heart aches for them, I sob for them and I think about them long after the dust settles. As an outsider I’m not sure whether it’s right to reach out to let them know I’m still thinking about them in case I upset them more. For those that have love and lost, please know that there are people that would love to be there when the grief overwhelms. We’re just quietly waiting in the wings.

    1. candidkay says:

      Friends like you are priceless. So many of us don’t bring it up after a period of time because people seem to think we should be over it. For you to reach out I’m sure is a lifesaver for your friends. They’re lucky to have you.

  28. so true… memories have no pattern – they take us back at the moment when we can taste that taste or smell that smell – some of them make us upset but some even though are painful, make the dead alive and make us warm.
    I loved your post and how easily you wrote what so many of us feel. beautiful. wish your son a speedy recovery.

    1. candidkay says:

      Thank you for the kind words. It’s nice to know we’re not alone–and we should be able to share the experience so we can support one another.

  29. The Rider says:

    Yes, you have been there- you know what you are talking about! Very well described!

    1. candidkay says:

      And it sounds like you have been there also. Hope you’re out of the thick of it.

  30. Servant says:

    You know that the psychologist manual the DSM now made the following official? They reckon all grief should be drugged. Sad how people can get so off-track in such large numbers…

    1. candidkay says:

      I do believe some people need extra help during the thickest bits or they can’t function. And unfortunately, we’re not set up to allow people a reasonable amount of time in which to fall apart. But I do think that eventually, you’ve got to be able to let it in–even if bit by bit. It’s the only way across the void.

  31. How wonderful that you were able to express this in words, such beautiful words, that so clearly illuminate the grieving process. Thank you.

    1. candidkay says:

      “Beautiful words” is heady praise for a writer. I’m glad they touched you. Thank you for reading and being brave enough to feel them.

  32. This was just beautiful…
    Beautifully written and from the heart.
    I wish you the best. Please don’t ever stop writing, you have something special.

  33. chaitanya says:

    Beautiful and poignant. I hope you get back to being happy and whole soon.
    As my parents cross 60 and I live halfway across the world from them, I constantly fear having to face a day where they aren’t around anymore. and if I’ve done enough for them. Grief by itself gradually fades away, but guilt at not having done enough gnaws forever.

    1. candidkay says:

      Ah, the guilt–yes. I remember that. I got to the point when my mother was dying that is was overwhelming–she lay dying and I had to be hundreds of miles away for my kids. I finally accepted that the love we had spanned years and was not defined by her final weeks. I was ruining the moments I was there because of the guilt I felt–I couldn’t be truly present. Once I accepted this truth, I was able to be there for her. And I think it made a difference. At least I hope so. Glad your parents are still at the age where you can hopefully enjoy them for years to come.

  34. jflaherty721 says:

    Thank you so much for sharing. This is very beautifully written. I am currently suffering from grief, as I just recently lost my daughter to Stillbirth, at 31 weeks. It’s been hell trying to make it through, so I also started a blog to attempt to work through my thoughts and emotions. Once again, thanks for sharing.

    1. candidkay says:

      I can’t even imagine what you must be going through. Hard enough to lose parents who have had a long life–but to lose a child–oh, my heart aches for you. I hope it helps to know you are not alone in your grief. I will keep you in my very best intentions.

  35. masrina says:

    Perfectly written.

  36. idesoflife says:

    This so heartbreaking, you stole the words right out of my mouth. Two people I loved dearly passed away within months of each other late last year, and I still feel the grief holding me down. Thank you for sharing this, my thoughts are with you. x

  37. Loving your candor and sentiment… if only others could realize how individual grief is and it takes as long as it takes. It is true that over time there are more smiles and less tears… we never stop loving and missing… we just get used to the world without our people in it… thank you for validating my mourning process… it is nice to just be accepted and respected for wherever we are in the process in our own lives.

    1. candidkay says:

      It’s true! And so many people feel there is an acceptable period for grief, after which you should be business as usual. I don’t think we’re very patient or understanding with each other in this way.

      1. I agree and can’t find the piece that speaks directly to this right now or I’d share what I wrote last year, how a friend joked “you’ve had your day and a half, what’s the matter with you?” The short answer is: Nothing. I’m so glad you are talking about a subject so many edge around. Maybe it will help more of us on healing journeys share our experiences. Humans have soft lips, to maintain a stiff upper is wholly unnatural is my opinion. Thanks again and for replying to my comment 😀

  38. Lovely post. I’ll just say: Better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all.

    1. candidkay says:

      I agree! Obviously:).

    2. kubababydoll says:

      I also agree! Beautiful post! Lovely way with words, I was right there with you through the whole thing! Beautiful!

      1. candidkay says:

        Thanks so much–glad the words touched you.

  39. Loved your post on grief. All of us have been slapped by its force at times when we least expect it. Your words were somehow comforting; the images were beautiful. This one’s a keeper: I’m printing it out!

    1. candidkay says:

      Nicest thing you could say to a writer–thanks very much.

  40. sow4hope says:

    I really enjoyed reading this – I have been through numerous losses. Your flashback recaps are worded excellently – thanks for sharing!

    1. candidkay says:

      Thanks for reading and for the kind words.

  41. Kami Tilby says:

    I’ve a friend who is dying of Multiple Myeloma. I find myself already grieving at the oddest most inconvenient times. I’ll be fine and then, like you said, something triggers a flashback or an overwhelming emotion and I’m a puddle of tears. You do have to grab the “nows” and enjoy them as much as you can. Thanks for such an honest and poignant post.

    1. candidkay says:

      I hope you’re creating all sorts of great nows with your friend. I’m sorry for your grief but glad you’re brave enough to feel it. Not for sissies, that’s for sure.

  42. lynnsears72 says:

    I enjoyed reading this post. Grief forces your life into sharp relief – your perspective shifts and you realise that all the time you are chasing your dream you are missing your NOW. So for all it is a process of loss, it is also a learning process which gives us perspective and wisdom in return. Thank you for writing this.

    1. candidkay says:

      I’m so glad it struck a chord with you, Lynn. It’s true. The now is so elusive unless we’re aware and focused. Thanks for reading.

  43. I think the saying that it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all is true. I’ve been lucky to this point in that most of my loved ones are still with me today. Of my four grandparents, only one is alive. My dad’s mom died before I ever knew her and his dad died when I was about 1. My mom’s dad died when I was in fourth grade and my mom’s mom is still alive. I never had to deal with the grief of losing either of my grandparents on my dad’s side because I never knew them, really, but the exchange is that I have no memories of them. I had to deal with my grandpa’s death in fourth grade, and it was hard for me to take, but I have many great memories of he and I together. When my grandma passes away, it’ll be harder than any of the others on me because I’ve had her my whole life and she was like a 2nd mother to me. While the pain will be the most severe with her death, I’ll have more memories of her than any of the others to get me through. That probably made no sense, but the short of it is thanks for the post, it got me to thinking a little bit about grandparents and rides in cars with kids on vacation that drive me crazy now but, as you say, will be fond memories someday.

    1. candidkay says:

      It sounds like you’re making more memories now, which is so key, I think. It’s too late to try to cram in all the special times when someone falls ill–or they’re just suddenly gone, and you don’t get the chance.

  44. words4jp says:

    Your post comes at a very interestingly particular time. i have moments like this but sometimes they have a tendency to just happen – like I have been hit by a sudden wave – out of nowhere. I lost my very best friend last year. We were more than friends and his death was unexpected. i saw him and the next day i found him. My life – my entire life and the lives of my children changed in a blink of an eye. Now, it has been 15 months since he passed away and i am better than I was, though I still have moments. However the other day I was sitting in bed writing a blog post and the train came from nowhere and hit me. He is gone – forever. I will never, ever, ever see him again. It was like ‘that’ moment of discovery happened all over again. I do not know what precipitated it – no idea. It just happened. It just happened.

    1. candidkay says:

      I am so sorry and so familiar with those moments. And for some reason, they seem a necessary part of getting to a new normal that rarely hurts. At least you were at home in bed–no less painful but less discomfiting. I hate it when these times hit in a very public place. Grief seems private, personal–even though it can’t (and probably shouldn’t) always be kept so. Wishing you peace.

  45. I read this post after, today, having a massive breakdown… Not to do with grief, but to do with something else. But it’s a relief, to know that I’m not weird, to have a breakdown after an amazing day, on the coach home.
    I remember the déja vu of grief… On holiday with my parents, seeing someone in a red hoodie, and having a heart-stopping moment of thinking it was someone, but knowing – knowing – it wasn’t.
    Amazing post,

    1. candidkay says:

      I’m so glad my words resonated with you. It is good to know it’s a universal thing–and I think we probably don’t lean on each other enough to get through it. Wishing you better times, and the courage to get through this tough time.

  46. Jan Wilberg says:

    There are so many things in a mind at any one time. It’s so strange how one memory can bump the others out of the way, be as vivid as can be for a tiny bit, and then go back in the file cabinet. You describe exactly how it happens so well.

    1. candidkay says:

      Thanks, Jan. I know I’m not alone in the experience and we all seem to go through it so alone . . . I guess the nature of the beast, so to speak.

  47. I’m sorry for your pain, but identify with remembering this little thing or that little thing. For me, I remember things about my Dad such as the two of us, on a long car ride, and he’d be telling me all about how and why hydrocortisone cream works (he was a dermatologist). I loved listening to him talk, and learning from him. I hope your grief passes more and more quickly, and that you become filled with memories that bring a smile more than tears.

    1. candidkay says:

      I like the idea that over time, more smiles than tears. Those are the bits you want to remember and hold onto . . .

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