There’s a woman I see walking through the park several times a week. I recognize her because I see her often, she’s lives just a block away, and I once found her dog wandering loose and returned him.
My nickname for this woman is “The New Yorker”. I have no idea is she is from New York or not. But she dresses to kill in all black, has a year-round tan, walks really fast, is always talking on her phone and never makes eye contact or says hello. Having worked with New Yorkers, I have a fondness for their no-BS attitudes and fast pace, so I don’t mind that she never acknowledges me. She’s just another familiar face I see regularly.
Today I learned that she lost her teenage daughter in a tragic accident a few years ago. There were several news articles about the accident. She also has a website for a support group she created for parents who lost a child.
And just like that, things became clearer for me.
She’s may or may not be a New Yorker. She’s a grieving mother.
When my stepdaughter died, something inside my wife was broken forever. I remember that first year, my wife never smiled. Not once.
I was grieving too, but my grief was not the same depth as my wife’s. She had loved Liz from the day she was born. I had known Liz for 18 years. It could not be the same.
We tried support groups, therapy, medication, counseling. Nothing really helped but time.
It was years before my wife could talk about Liz without breaking down. Eventually she did smile once again. Sometimes we could even reminisce about the good times we shared with Liz. But a large piece of my wife’s happiness died with Liz.
I don’t know if I’ll ever talk to the New Yorker. But I will think of her with a different level of kindness and gentleness every time I see her.