Picking up the pieces

Last week, my wife Kate and I drove to the cabin, arriving late. We sensed that a storm had blown through, but we saw only traces in the dark. A treetop hung upside down, cracked in half. Sticks scattered on the ground as we unloaded the car. But we didn’t know the extent of the damage.

In the morning, I woke early and walked down to the water. The path was littered with branches, small and big. Then I noticed a fallen tree had clipped the corner of my cousin’s gazebo down by the shoreline. Walking around the resort, we saw swaths of trees down everywhere.

Turns out plow winds—straight-line winds that can be as destructive as tornadoes—had come through the province Wednesday evening, and we'd caught the edge of it.

Cleanup

As people returned to their cabins, cleanup began. Chainsaws could be heard around the resort. People cleared their yards and paths, and I had my own branches to break down and burn.

The scene felt strangely familiar.

A month ago, I lost my sister Judy to cancer, and I am still picking up the pieces of her life.

First was the funeral, then the meetings with the lawyer and the bank, then the other companies she did business with. It felt productive and good, but like coming to the cabin at night, I wasn’t seeing the big picture. I hadn’t let myself mourn, even though I thought I had.

In those final weeks by her bedside, I had a lot of tough moments. But it wasn’t until we started cleaning her condo, packing her belongings and memories, that the sadness really rolled in and knocked me down.

Previous storms

Looking back at last week’s storm, I’m reminded that this wasn’t the first time plow winds had hit here.

A few years ago, destructive gusts had struck a town near the lake. You’d drive the streets and see trees knocked over, their roots ripped out of the ground, leaving deep holes. It was both devastating and impressive—the raw force of the wind matched against trees that had stood for decades.

But now, when I pass through the town, I don’t see where those trees had once stood. They’ve been cleaned up, and their holes have been filled in. I probably couldn’t tell you where they even had been.

The same thing happened after my dad’s death. Fourteen years ago, I felt the same holes of sadness and pain that I feel now. But as the years passed, it hurt less, and many of the holes were filled in.

Eventually, this storm will also pass.

Moving forward

Eventually, I’ll get back to the writing. It helped me get through Judy’s illness, and I know it will help me get through her passing. And I still intend to start releasing stories for paid subscribers in the middle of this month. It’s been the plan for a while, even with everything else going on.

So that’s where I am—picking up the pieces and rolling through the darkness. Next month, you should see some links to stories at the bottom of the newsletter and a way to subscribe if you choose.

That's it for now. Thank you for all the kind words and for sticking around.

Until next time,
David