Many errands to do today. My car is dirty, so before I set out, I decide to wash it. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I want to lie down in the driveway and sob. Another blindside. I’ve been hit with a wall of sorrow. I’m not sure I can do anything but lie down in the fetal position in the driveway. I steady myself physically and emotionally by leaning on the hood of the car and in less than three minutes it passes. I set out, on my way, as though it didn’t happen.

First, the dry cleaner. Anna says, “We think of you every day”. I give her a hug, wipe away a few tears and trundle the massive load to the car.

Then Peet’s. John’s 4th grade teacher is walking out as I’m walking in. Big hug. She indulges me with a 15 minute conversation, balancing her bag of beans as the coffee in a paper cup cools. She says, “I hope today is a better day than yesterday.” She offers, “It’s a mysterious journey.” She shares, “The memorial was powerful. There were cars parked all the way to the bottom of the hill and around the corners.” I wasn’t aware that she had attended. I cry. We laugh. We connect. I leave feeling warm and comforted.

Now to the bank. A nice conversation with Manny. Last time I was there I was teary and shaky. It feels good to complete three transactions with no tears. Just a routine day at the bank.

Across the street to the pet store. Normal interaction with the sales people as they help me select a variety of things. In this setting I’m operating the way I did before I lost John. A mental acknowledgment….check! I’m doing better than I was a few weeks ago.

Jewelry store. Same. Ordinary. No big deal.

Post Office. My neighbor arrives and settles into the line behind me. No mention of John. She had sent a condolence card so I know she knows. I don’t know if she came to the memorial, she doesn’t say. I ask if she is still hiking as frequently, and if I can join her sometime. I text her my number. Still no mention of John. Slightly awkward, a new normal, it didn’t hurt. I barely noticed.

Another bank. I go in to close the account that I opened when John started college in Montana. At the time it was the most seamless way to transfer money into his student account. We haven’t touched it in years. I’ve been meaning to close it. I’m walking by, so why not now? Easy. No hassles. I’m not compelled to explain why I don’t need the account anymore. She doesn’t ask why. I’m surprised at myself. With the oppressive remembering that the account was for John, I’m surprised that I don’t want to curl up in a ball on the floor of the bank. I can function.  I can walk, and I walk out with $452 in my pocket.

Now the book store. I see one slightly familiar face. Maybe she is a Miramonte parent who sat next to me at a back-to-school-night long ago, or just a longtime Orinda resident whose path has crossed mine enough times that she is recognizable. We engage in a conversation about the Anne Frank special that was on PBS last night. We connect and I’m not overcome with a powerful urge to tell her that my son had died 4 months ago. Another marker. I am getting better.

One last errand. The pharmacy. A long wait. With a new year comes new insurance cards, new numbers, new plans and everyone has to be patient while it gets sorted out. A friend, who I met 30+ years ago when I had the Children’s Shop comes in and gets in line behind me. Big hug. We have plenty of time to talk and have a good conversation about her kids, about how we are doing, about everything. It feels normal.

When I get home I take a mental survey of the tasks accomplished and the long list of interactions I’ve just had. It was a lot. But I’m not a wreck. I’m actually feeling pretty good. I’m making progress.