Andrea, I was hoping you could lend me one of your big purses.
I opened the closet where they are stored. To my disappointment, the big ones I remember were not there. I’m not sure, perhaps I lent them on your behalf, and my grief brain doesn’t remember. At first, I was disappointed and sad, a minor frustration compared to the grief I carry daily, but it caused me to pause. I know you understand. I started to look in the closet quietly, and my eyes focused on the purse you had that day—the beautiful lilac-colored one with darker purple trim. I could still see the scratches from the accident, but my heart thought I would use this one and hold it with love and pride, just as you did. You loved purple, and the contrast of two shades of purple was captivating to anyone who saw it. But as I picked it up, I noticed that time had crept in and damaged what had once been so beautiful. The pretty purple material had become cracked, revealing the white underlay, and the pieces were falling apart in my hands. I sat on the bed and reflected on that day, and could feel the beauty of your presence, your smile, your voice, my daughter. Then the piercing pain of missing you crushed my heart piece by piece. I realized that time has also tried to deteriorate the sweetness of our love, but unsuccessfully, because it is untouchable. Our bond, memories, love, and your legacy will be forever. I carefully placed your damaged purse back in its’ safe keepsake spot and could almost feel your touch securing and locking our love.
I slowly looked around the closet, touching the purses gently and remembering. My eyes stopped on the bright red shiny one with white trim. Some people might say it is outdated and not the style for today, but it is yours, and it’s so pretty; you’ve always had a fantastic sense of style for this necessary accessory. I decided it would be perfect for my trip. I will choose to live boldly even with my grief and carry my daughter’s memory with strength, her love for red, and the joy it brought to her. As I placed her purse in plain sight for me when I am packing, I thought my day would continue as usual. But I could feel the unexpected weight of grief get heavier and heavier. It is difficult to get a good breath; the tears are creating pressure behind my eyes so much that it hurts. The emptiness within my soul is indescribable, but I continue to move forward doing the things I need to do. My body felt like it had instant fatigue, with slow, weak movements. I decided to take a little nap, maybe the safe place of my bed will help me. I awakened feeling proud of myself for managing to take control and not give in to the pain and impact of this grief wave.
Life progressed as it does every day without you. Then I find myself alone, your dad reminded me that maybe there are more purses. So, I went to our storage area and found the purple tote, which I anticipated contained purses. To my surprise, I met another trigger that could make my heart bleed again. I guess I have been a clever grieving mom; it was a tote for your baby boy, Tristan. It contained a note that I had written to him 13 years ago after you left. I placed it in a bag with all the items I found in your purse that you carried that day. A little reminder for him that one day, when he reads it, he will know of your love for him. The tote contained baby clothes and items that you so carefully bought for him. I wanted to honour your love for you and him. I gently closed the container, which carried me down memory lane to add more to my already heavy burden of pain. No other purses, just reminders of the beautiful daughter and mother you are.
Grief is not a linear process, and loss is a strange and unwelcome companion. It does not arrive with a schedule, and it does not come with instructions. Thirteen years ago, I lost my daughter, and every day since, I have navigated the relentless landscape of grief, learning as I went what it truly means to live with the absence of someone I loved dearly.
Society believes that thirteen years later, grief has worked itself through, and life is good. Well, that is not entirely wrong; life is good. On the bad days, and yes, I still have them, I feel like I am overwhelmed and suffocating, gasping for that next breath. Then there are days when I can see and feel the small joys, such as the scent of a beautiful flower, the laughter of my grandchildren, and the healing power of nature. These better days do not erase the grief, but they remind me that life still holds beauty and that there is hope.
As I progressed in my journey, I realized grief is full of change. Just as the purses had changed, so had I, and time moves forward, whether I am ready or not. Loss changes everything — our routines, our possessions, our expectations — yet within these changes, life continues to offer small gifts if we are willing to notice with appreciation. The missing purses became a symbol of my reality. The physical object was no longer there, just as the life I had imagined with my daughter was gone. However, this reminded me that our love and bond remain, eternal and untouched by time.
Over the years, I have learned that acknowledging grief means permitting oneself to feel the pain fully, without judgment. Acknowledging loss, even in small, daily ways, is the first step toward genuine healing. The purses I could not find were a gentle nudge: notice the change, honor the loss, allow the feelings. I carried the disappointment of the missing purse forward into a choice: I could focus on what was gone, or I could notice the purses that were still there, still functional, still offering use for honour. The action of using the red purse does not erase pain, but it transforms it into purpose. I can use this and carry the same pride that Andrea did when she held it. Today allowed me to appreciate the beauty and goodness that remain, even in the midst of profound sorrow. Gazing into the closet evoked the memory of the purses Andrea had loved. Appreciating my daughter and everything she means to me does not diminish my grief; it serves as a poignant reminder that grief and love co-exist.
I closed the closet doors today with a reminder that grief will always remain, just as my love for Andrea does. I will use her red purse with honour as it whispers courage to me, and the gentle silence of ‘I am still here.’ It carries the story of love, loss, and resilience.
