We were driving from story time to get lunch when my mom said, “Grief’s a pretty constant companion these days. I’m no longer afraid of her showing up.” I inhaled deeply as she spoke, integrating the power and the truth of this realization. I call my grief a gremlin. She lives in my heart pocket and has wings like a crow and claws she keeps trimmed, though they come out every so often. Her big eyes are round and deep blue, and when I’m hurting, they look deep into me with a knowing so profound. This little gremlin sees me, if I let her.

We lost another matriarch last week. Dylan’s grandmother passed at the age of 94. Her decline was quick, perhaps it always is. Though we knew the end was coming, I’m always sensitive to the sucking away of air leaving the room when you get the news. When I received the text, it was early. We held hands and in the pause, welcomed again the little gremlin as she crawled out of the warm place where she lives. I wept when making travel arrangements, and again in bedrooms when we went back to her home.

Grief, if we let it, is a constant companion. March is coming and I miss my dad ever so much. When telling baby of the loss, she repeated me saying, “Grandma died.” Then, after her pause, said, “She went home with Papa.” Perhaps the children know more than we do.

And as grief walks alongside, life still happens. Emails pile in. To-do lists loom. The text messages buzz, reminding me of connection and purpose and pull my brain in perpendicular directions. After a busy weekend, and snacks for dinner, I found a rare moment of rest on the couch Sunday evening. At 8:30 pm, after the bedtime routine, I was scrounging in the pantry for a little something. I filled a pot, watched water boil, and made pasta, letting the steam reach my face for just a few moments. I melted butter, sizzled garlic, and pulled together a silky sauce to coat my carbs. I poured myself a glass of wine, and at a time too late for supper, sank into the couch to nourish myself. I patted the seat next to me, inviting the gremlin onto the cushions.

Turning to the episode of “The Crown” where the Queen loses her sister, I let the waves of tenderness wash over me. Relationships are complicated. We try to connect, we miss, we try again. We anger and we make-up. And in the end, we lose. And we love. Bowls of pasta help. The welcoming, again, of our grief as friend, is a beautiful thing.