9

Nine.  A number that for most, may not bear any particular meaning.  For me, nine means death.  Loss.  Repositioning of my place in the order of things.  Rethinking who I am, where I came from, where I am headed.  

I was kindly warned that grief would have many faces.  Nine is one of them.  Nine is the number both of my parents chose to disembark from planet Earth, albeit on different years.  

I am trying hard to be grateful for their longevity.  Thankful for their loving parenting.  Honoring of who they were simply for they sake of who they were and not just because they were my parents.

I am trying hard to believe that they are dancing with the angels and not just disappearing in the dirt.  I am clinging to heaven with the hope of Christ.  I have no choice.  Otherwise, I feel desperation.

Perhaps it's because this is a week that ends with a journey to place Mom's ashes next to Dad's back in their chosen place of resting.  It was her wish.  It's the least I can do despite my dread.  I will most likely never go back to that place again.  Makes me sad.

So I will shake the grief off my shoes and walk ahead.  It's what they both would want.  Nestled forever in my heart and my memories.