Every season has its own mishmash of memories, heartaches and yes, even joys.

It was a sunny, breezy October day in 1985 when we got married. Oranges, reds and golden yellows swirled in the air as I stood beside the sugar maple tree in the front yard, flanked by my parents, anticipating my new future life. And, it was a sunny, crisp day in November of 2011 that I got the phone call from the hospital, telling me Jeff had been in a bad accident, “could I get there right away?” He died two days later. When the yellow buses return, every fall, I anticipate the good and the hard. It doesn’t surprise me. It is what it is.

Winter has its own kind of hibernating, almost comforting, feeling. The darkness creeps earlier into the day. It is easier to decline invitations and stay in as bitter winds blow and snow flies. Expectations of social interactions wane. No one blames me for staying in. Not that sadness or grief doesn’t surface, but hunkering down and drawing in seems a little bit more socially acceptable. And sometimes, withdrawing from society at large brings a gentle kind of healing.

By the time spring chirps its way into life, I am ready for the lengthening days.  Signs of new life spring up from the ground and pop out on the ends of branches. It’s in the name: Spring.  And spring brings hope. Snow drops appear with their fragile little blooms, busting forth from the hard, cold earth. “If they can do it, so can I!” Motivation springs forth anew as my hatchback overflows with too many annuals and too little time.

But summertime? Oy Vay! I didn’t see THAT coming! While it was acceptable to stay in during winter’s artic blasts, summer invitations lack weather related excuses. And the days are L-O-N-G. Some days just won’t end! When I was young or even when my kids were young and their dad was alive, summertime meant no school schedule. Vacation had begun!  For us, summers were filled with Jeff’s perpetual landscaping projects, (how many ways can one create a babbling brook and a bubbling pond? Let Jeff count the ways!). We loved camping in our little pop-up with friends. I picked bowls of blackberries from our “babbling brook, bubbling pond” patch behind our house. I went strawberry picking at a local farm, with my daughter. Sprinklers and slip ‘n slides dotted the yard. I loved summer’s simple non-schedule…until Jeff died.

That first summer, adding Jeff’s outdoor chores to my indoor chores, was a challenge. I had never started, much less drove the riding lawn mower. By the way, I never did! A self-propelled push mower became my friend! But vacation planning with an 11-year-old daughter and 23-year-old son?  I had given away our little pop-up camper. It was old. Jeff and I had always wanted to get a bigger one. When a colleague was selling hers, I almost bought it! I loved camping…I will bring my little family camping with a bigger camper…Who was I kidding? I had never hitched the trailer to our van, nor had I driven it down the road! And backing that thing up?? How many of you have backed up a trailer? I really don’t know why I thought I could do those things, except I was in early grief, and early grief either incapacitates or falsely empowers. All my reasoning went out the window, with my brain. Thankfully I didn’t get the camper. I don’t know how we got through that first summer; it’s just a blur.

The summer before Jeff died, he was out in the babbling brook, bubbling pond, blackberry patch area of our backyard. “What do you think THIS is?” he asked as he pointed to a low growing, multi leafed plant. I had no idea (and no plant identifier app—it was 2011 after all). He thought he would let it grow and see. As the days passed, leaf upon furry leaf piled up higher, and then, a shoot started for the sky. It got taller, and taller and taller…and in the heat of summer, at the very tip, little yellow flowers poked out. Neither of us knew WHAT it was…so Jeff named it what it looked like. He called it “the penis plant”.

Summer ended. Fall took its place, and Jeff died. Winter showed up, the way it always does. But then…spring. Our home had a big picture window in the front, with a sliding glass door to the backyard deck, which led to the babbling brook, bubbling pond, blackberry patch area of our backyard, and Jeff’s “penis plant” (which I had learned by then, was a mullein).

That first spring, amongst the pachysandra in the front of our house an unimpressive “weed” emerged. I didn’t really notice it…until summertime.

Smack dab in the middle of the window, a shoot emerged and got taller and taller and taller, and then an eruption of yellow flowers on its tip…a mullein! (Or as I affectionately called it, “Jeff’s penis plant”.) How it moved from the back to the front, I will never know. But each year, it came back, as if Jeff was standing guard at our house. Five years later, the house was sold and we moved into my current husband Daniel’s house in Pittsford. Our first summer there…what appeared? You guessed it. And every summer since, (it’s been 9 years), mulleins appear randomly in the front yard in different places. It makes me smile…and say “hi Jeff!”

Every season has its own mishmash of memories, heartaches and joys. Acknowledging the feelings and embracing the memories as connections to our loved ones—though they have died, our love remains—can help us find peace and maybe even a little joy.