November 2, 2021
“The ghosts and the pain didn’t lessen by confronting them, but they did grow more bearable—as if you yourself got bigger, able to hold more grief.” Mariah Reddick, the main character in The Orphan Mother by Robert Hicks, is grieving her son, Theopolis. That grief, a parent’s grief, is the most profound. Knowing this grief, her words resonated with me.
With the passage of time, our grief doesn’t get smaller, nor does it become easier to bear. Like the quote suggests, I believe we do, indeed, experience an expansion of sorts—some part of our heart and soul opens and continues to open. We gain the blessing of the ability to accommodate the days, months, years, decades . . . of mourning, of loss.
Grief comes; it always will, but we create space to hold it.
If we are even more blessed, we extend that space further and begin to hold others in their grief and longing so they, too, can do the same. Thus, they gain their own space to grieve and hold love.
This is the gift that Alexa gave me—a heart that didn’t close, but instead opened and continues to open. And in that space, I hold the finest of her offerings to me: Love, undying, enduring love.
No, dearest Lexie, I will never ever forget you. I will love you always and forever and continue to expand the place in my heart and life where I hold you.
Alexa Renee Provo: March 22, 1979—November 2, 1986
