Six years and five days ago Mike harvested these tomatoes that he grew. He had planted some seeds on a whim in a crappy window box the previous tenant had left behind. The soil had been sitting, untended, in the baking sun for who knows how long. And one day Mike decided to plant some seeds. I can’t speak to his thoughts on the matter, but it didn’t appear to be a deeply considered plan. I was doubtful. I didn’t think anything would grow in this soil on our forgotten window ledge. But Mike had hope enough for both of us.
I barely remember him watering them. And I would have noticed as to get to it he had to climb on top of the couch and hang out the window, butt in the air. But somehow over the next few weeks, a tomato plant grew.
I remember his glee when he discovered these cherry tomatoes growing. And I felt joy with him as he proudly showed me his harvest. We planned to put them in a salad once they’d all ripened.
Unfortunately, Mike died a few days later. The tomatoes were left where he had put them and forgotten in the shock of everything that happened after his death.
Today is the six-year anniversary of Mike’s death.
It seems like a long time but also feels like hardly any time at all has passed. Whiletime continues, I can be back there. There is a version of me there, waking up and finding him, trying to help, and being powerless to save him. And I’m here six years on, in a life in which I’ve fought hard to hold.
Looking back, I can see how far I’ve come. I struggled to survive at first, in that acute overwhelming grief. And then I fought hard to find meaning in my life that I’m so lucky to still have. And the duality of grief continually hits me. The simultaneous truths that I can wish everything was different and at the same time I can also be present in my life and show up as best I can. It isn’t a silver lining or gift from the loss, I will always recoil from thinking like that. I will always wish Mike hadn’t died. And it’s the truth that my life took a turn that day and there’s no going back.
It’s not always easy, but alongside the grief I try to hold joy, love, awe, curiosity and connection. It can be hard to see the value in joy when things are bad. But it’s so important, especially when my usual default mode is ‘bracing for impact’. It doesn’t come easy, but I’m working at it.
This anniversary always involves reflection. It has a heavy weight to it that is hard for me to explain in its totality. So, I look for the truth in the moment and think of Mike. I don’t know why this story obsessively came to me this week, but it has. I looked carefully at the photos I took of Mike’s tomatoes, like I’ve done for every other photo from that time, as if it hold answers. Coincidently (or maybe not), this week my boss kindly gifted me a tomato plant from his crop of seedlings. Tomato was also the first word I saw today in the NYT Spelling Bee. Signs or coincidences? Who’s to say. And it doesn’t really matter. I just know I felt compelled to share this story on this tough day. For me and anyone else who may need it.
Mike worked hard at his recovery. He was trying to grow and knew it took work. And it sucks that one slip up cost him his life. I wish I knew more about what he thought about everything, from his recovery, his relapse, and his little tomato plant. For now, I can only guess and take lessons where I can.
I’m going to keep planting, growing things including myself, and have a little hope and joy. Just like Mike would.
How do you mark tough anniversaries?
Do you look to what your person taught you for guidance?
