Aisles of Unexpected Emotion
It had been a long time since I had found myself in the baking aisle of the grocery store, crying. On Sunday, I had chosen that aisle, as I often had, because it is closest to the produce section and also because it was, thankfully, empty.
The memories that surface while grocery shopping are unpredictable and at the same time ferocious. For the past nine years, they have been sabotaging me and leaving me feeling unmoored at the store, though with less frequency as time goes by. For the first three years after my son Oliver died, grocery shopping almost always brought tears. It often involved me abandoning a cart in the corner of the store to cry in the restroom or my car to regain my composure.
Nourishment and the Will to Live
I have been a parent for nearly thirty years now, and so much of my adult life has been spent thinking about nourishing my children. Nourishment is tied to survival, to thriving, and to the will to live itself. This is one reason that the grocery store can flood my mind and heart with memories in such a formidable way.
What the Brain Does with Grief
In her book, The Grieving Brain, Mary Francis O’Connor discusses how our brains create mental maps to locate our loved ones. Neural networks are formed in our minds so that we can picture where our loved ones are when we can’t be with them. Our brains also predict when we will see them again. It’s almost as if we have an innate GPS to track the people we love. We literally wire them into our brains and continue to search for them using these neural networks after they die. It’s not just that the map of our lives has to change; it’s also that we are now mapping entirely new terrain. One of the areas of that map that required (and still requires) remapping is my reaching for Oliver while I’m at the grocery store.
Summer Fruits and Sacred Rituals
Oliver and I shared a love of summer fruits. We delighted in plums, nectarines, strawberries, cherries, apricots, and watermelons. He was particularly enchanted with nectarines. When he was about ten years old, he began saying “summer fruits” in a sing-song voice when I would get home from the grocery store with the first fruits of the season. That summer, every time new fruit would come into the house, I would join him in his “summer fruits” chant, and we would both chuckle at the pleasure of it.
Oliver had a deep appreciation for the sublime joy in small, simple things, such as summer fruits being back in season and having free time to enjoy them. This was one of the qualities about Oliver I loved most. Being around him helped me to slow down and focus my attention on this day, this joy, this nectarine, this moment. It is impossible to put into words the depth of connection I felt with him in those small moments.
The First Summer Without Him
In the summer after he died, back in 2016, I called a friend from the grocery store after passing by the nectarines that had just been stocked for the first time that season. In previous summers, I would have reached for one and smelled its sweet aroma with a smile. I would have calculated how many to buy and thought about making peaches and cream or peach cobbler as a weekend treat. But on this day, as I passed by the fruit section, I was overwhelmed by a confluence of emotions. I was experiencing excitement that the summer fruits had arrived and dread that Oliver would never be able to taste a nectarine, and we would never chuckle in delight together again.
This is how grief goes. We must rebuild the map in our heart and mind that holds the habit of reaching for our person, and we reconstruct that map one step at a time, one memory at a time. We must remember, over and over again, that they are no longer here in physical form. And if we believe this to be true, we can reach for them differently because they are still with us in spirit.
Two Nectarines and a Turning Point
Luckily, that day my friend picked up the phone. She was very generous with her time in my early grief. Looking back now, I see how incredibly brave and kind that was; it must not have been easy for her to field my phone calls. I called her from the hallway near the bathroom, and when she picked up, I explained how I felt frozen in the grocery store. I explained to her about the nectarines and the paralyzingly conflicting emotions. Her advice was some of the most helpful grief recovery advice I have ever received.
She said to me, “You’ll just have to eat two nectarines. One for him and one for you.”
In hindsight, it seems simple and perhaps obvious. But in that moment, the advice was revolutionary. I took her sound and loving guidance. Upon returning home, I stood in my kitchen alone and ate two nectarines with tears on my cheeks. I knew that Oliver was there with me in spirit, and I also knew that he would want me to continue living and loving all of the summer fruits! It was a small step in the direction of how I live my life now. I carry him with me in everything I do, and he is never far from my mind and heart. Throughout the day, every day, I reach for him and bring him into the moment with me.
Peach Cobbler and the Gift of Presence
Oliver didn’t like the fuzzy skin of peaches, but he adored nectarines. However, when he was eight and we were living in Texas, we found Georgia peaches at a local farm stand. Tasting one right there, we were stunned by the intensity of the flavor. In my enthusiasm, I bought a dozen, momentarily compartmentalizing that within a week we would be moving to Connecticut.
Days later, I searched for ways to cook with peaches and stumbled upon a fantastic peach cobbler recipe. (This is the recipe – I omit the nutmeg.) I can still recall the look of enchantment on Oliver’s face when he took the first bite.
Fortunately, my late husband’s employer had paid for movers to pack our home and move us. Having moved our family eight times, I understood what this was a boon. This time, packing was a relatively simple task. We hid the peach cobbler in the oven on the first day the movers came, so we could enjoy it in the evening after they left. They found it in the oven and asked me if I wanted it packed, and I said a polite “No, thank you,” as Oliver laughed hysterically. We giggled together as I placed it in the upstairs bathroom, washed and ready to be packed the next morning.
Looking back, that peach cobbler was a high point in a week that could have been immensely stressful. We tried to stay relaxed and joyful, and soak up our last moments of happiness in that home. It took me years to make peach cobbler again. Each time I do now, it reminds me of the intention to savor the moments of experiences. Oliver was a master of presence, and over and over again, he taught me how to slow down, be present, and appreciate the moment. In fact, he continues to teach me this now.
The Onion Story
Before Sunday, it had been two years since I cried in a grocery store aisle. For some reason, my grief arises in the produce section, and this time the trip wire was a giant yellow onion. Vividly, I remembered a day when Oliver was eleven. We were in Connecticut, living in the home I currently reside in. We had moved into this house a few months prior, and his baby brother was just a few months old. We were at the checkout and I realized I had forgotten to buy an onion. I asked Oliver to get one for me and I remember watching him take a while to choose it. Moments later, he appeared by the cart with a quirky smile and handed me an onion. I thanked him and navigated the stress of checking out the groceries with an antsy baby.
I’m not sure what made me look at the receipt as I slowly walked towards the door. I remember saying out loud, “How did that onion cost a dollar?” Oliver looked at me laughing and said, “Because I brought you the biggest one I could find!” I laughed and said to him, “Well, that makes sense. It really is a giant onion!” We left the store, both of us laughing.
A New Way of Reaching
On Sunday, after gathering myself beside the cornmeal, I went back to the produce section, and picked out the biggest yellow onion I could find. Sometimes grief softens in the smallest choices. We remember, we reach, we keep living.
