Years ago, Rich’s brother, Steve, brought us an old, rusted lantern and hung it in this elm.
The tree is in our view when we sit in our rockers by the wind chimes Ryan hung in our gazebo.
Over time, the tree has encompassed the lantern. It’s become an enduring element of our yard and along with the chimes, it’s a daily reminder of people we have lost.
I tucked a Rose of Sharon bloom into the crook that squashes the lantern for Steve’s wife, Sharon, while she and her kids were visiting us.
We had a mini memorial for Steve and Ryan during the gathering, and sprinkled some of their ashes at the root of the tree and under the wind chimes while each of us expressed thoughts and told stories about these two guys we all miss so much.
Before carefully spooning some of Ry’s ashes out to use, I wiped down the urn, remembering how I’d wash his little face off when he was a baby. This didn’t feel morbid at all to me, it was a cherished moment, thinking about his cheery smile that was pretty much always smeary with food or dirt for the first few years of his life.
When Ryan died, I started writing him letters, tucking the notes into his urn. For this ceremony, I blindly plucked one out of the jar to read to the group. It’s the first time I’ve opened any of them.
I think I’ll start reading one to myself on days my mind is heavily filled with missing him.
It was moving to be with people we loved, people who also loved the men who had died. Being together to honor them was deeply meaningful. And our laughter and fun times over the too short visit that the group was here, was just great.
Our families do not live near us, so visits are a treasure even when they go by so quickly. Just as we never forget the special guys we lost and hold them close in our memories, family near and far are all wrapped in forever hugs in our hearts.
Like the lantern squeezed into the tree.