© Catherine HaslagA Simple Moment
My grandpa and I (age 2) eating lunch in the kitchen.
My grandfather died 2 months before my 13th birthday. Other family members died previously, but my grandpa’s death was the first big death I was old enough to remember in any kind of significant way. I had the wind knocked out of me in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
It started Labor Day weekend. My mom was in D.C. on a business trip, so I stayed at my grandparent’s house that week while she was away. Grandpa started to feel ill over the weekend. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. My uncles finally convinced him to see a doctor on Tuesday if he wasn’t feeling better. He was admitted to the hospital on Tuesday and died Thursday morning before I got on the bus to school. I found out about 10a when my Uncle Willie called the school. He picked me up 20 minutes later. I can still remember the silence of the truck ride back to what just that morning had been grandma AND grandpa’s house.
That night, my grandma stayed in bed. She had just lost her husband of 47 years. My uncles were gone, probably making funeral arrangements. My job for the evening: answer the door when people came to pay their condolences, receive any food they brought, and Tetris it into one of the refrigerators in the house. (I grew up in a very small town and EVERYONE feeds you when there is a death.)
My grandpa loved to pull us behind his mower – be it on a toboggan or in a wagon.
My grandparent’s neighbor, Barb, brought over a breakfast casserole. We went into the kitchen to add the casserole to the already bulging contents of the green fridge. After closing the fridge door, I looked at her. We probably stood there for only 10 or 15 seconds, but it felt like so much longer. Neither of us spoke yet we shared volumes. We stood there in our silence, looking at each other. I felt like she knew everything I was feeling. That she got me in that moment, understood the weight of my grief, and made a space for it. It was a gift. We shared a teary hug and then she went home.
I don’t remember anything else regarding what people brought or even who visited my grandparent’s house that night, but I remember every second of that brief exchange with Barb 27 years later. I doubt Barb remembers it or has given it a second thought, but this moment touched me deeply. I felt like someone really saw me in my grief in that moment and it was everything to me. We offer these moments to people without even realizing the gift we have given them.
The gift of a simple moment too deep for time.
© Catherine Haslag
A gratitude practice became a part of my life a handful of years ago. At the time I started this practice all I could see was everything that was “wrong” in the world. I was wasting so much energy on what didn’t appear to be “right” and was looking for a way to shift that energy into something productive. Someone suggested that I cultivate a gratitude practice to shift my attitude and view of life. They challenged me to see the flowers on the wallpaper rather than focus on the cracks in the plaster.
About halfway through lockdown in 2020, I decided to add something else tangible to my gratitude practice, so I brought the gold star back into my life. This was a simple, visible, and slightly quirky way for me to show gratitude to myself and those around me. It was also a way to spread a little childhood joy in the grind of adulthood.
© Catherine Haslag