Grief is a force that, in time, collides with all our lives. Ripping what we thought we knew, and who we were from the roots. Flinging us upside down, and sideways so viciously it is a wonder to be able to find our balance.
In the second year of grief, we can find ourselves in our darkest hour. The numb static of the first year begins to lift, and the light is shown on our new reality, the ones we lost are not coming back. The check in phone calls seem to fade, and the confused looks by some appear, when they realize we are “not over it.” Unfortunately, grief was not a stranger to me when I lost my daughters’ father, as my brother passed on seven years before. But this loss was different, I had beautiful two-year-old twin daughters, who now only had mom to be strong for them.
In the face of it, I didn’t know much of anything anymore, but what I did know, above all else, I loved my children. And even the deepest pain, the power of the most unthinkable heartbreak could not compare to the love I have for them, and the joy they bring me by being exactly who they are. And though their father was gone, their lives had just begun. I needed something new, somewhere new for just us, to start again.
The three of us went on endless drives around Fairfield County, attempting to find something, somewhere that felt right. And then I found this little yellow carriage house, in the beautiful town of Easton; a town rich in history and unique in its vastness of green.
I called to meet with the Realtor who represented this beautiful yellow cottage that so intrigued me. A kind, local woman named Sandy. I brought my daughters, and my mother, curious if they would see in it what I did. My daughters shrieked with glee at the old swing by the front door, the fact that it sat upon its very own yard filled with possibilities of flowers and new memories to be made. Mind you, I was one of several in line, eager for the chance of a home like this, and in reality, I was the least desirable candidate. But we were chosen.
“I think this would be the perfect home for a mother and her daughters,” Sandy said. I was handed the keys to our future, to hope. We moved in the first of July 2024. We hung up wallpaper, our favorite art pieces, family photographs of moments I’d never want to forget. We planted flower seeds, in the hopes to enjoy their beauty in years to come. And yes, there we many times the throb in my heart from the absence of their father I thought would swallow me whole, but it didn’t, I kept going, we kept going.
So now it was time to find the right preschool. It felt as though I made two dozen phone calls, all ending in disappointment as I had found them all too late. The first week in August I get a call, from the school that was first on my list, Christ Church Nursery School. I was met with the kind voice of the school director, Maggie. She could make room for my girls as she had just hired someone new. I pulled up to a church at the bottom of a beautiful hill, surrounded by strong trees, I was overcome by a feeling that I had been there before, but surely, I hadn’t. I was greeted by Maggie and her sister Amy, who was hard at work preparing for the school year ahead. I had no idea at the time what these sisters would mean to me, mean to my daughters.
On the girls’ first day, my stomach was met with the natural butterflies a mother gets on her children’s first day of school. My girls ran fearlessly onto the scene, not looking back. They were embraced by the other children, and the wonderful teachers who have spent this past year tending to my wildflower daughters, watering them with their kindness, and their knowledge they so effortlessly offer every single child there.
Mr. Patrick is warm, patient, and endless in his gifts to offer the children, as my daughters would say “a very, very good man.” Ms. Amy is full of ferocious love, belly laughs and understanding to not just the children but to the mothers who need it too. I could not accurately timeline the moment I felt my full trust handed over to this school, I just know that I did. Even when life seems to chew you up and spit you out, to find a group of people who you trust so wholeheartedly with your children, who teach them and love them, that is nothing short of miraculous.
As we reach the end of the first school year in town, I sit here among the flowers that grew from the seeds we planted, with the utmost gratitude. All the teachers at Christ Church Nursery School, the parents of the children who became my daughters’ most treasured friends, the cracked walls of this perfect old yellow house, in this magical town of Easton, we now call home. You did not just get us through our second year of grief; you gave us Spring of heart. Coming out of the longest winter, stronger and taller, like the trees that surround this town. By giving my daughters a home, you saved my life. And I thank you from the deepest parts of myself.
