I have always had a strong connection to my cousin Susan. Susan was one year older than me, and we formed a special bond over a love of music and reading together for hours. She was the first person who met my creative heart and understood my budding views of the world and spirituality.
We were passionate souls with an intense attraction to the arts. She played drums and clarinet and I played trumpet. We continued music through high school, and she planned on taking her love of music into a career. Susan was the first to leave the state for college in our family, and it was quite the leap for her personally and emotionally.
Susan did not complete her studies, instead marrying a military man — the man of her dreams — with a life deeply rooted in farming. She was in love and left collegiate life behind to start a family.
Both our lives were full and on different trajectories. That put a gap in our relationship, and sometimes we found ourselves worlds apart from understanding each other. As the years passed, we found ourselves coming together only in celebrations and deaths.
Susan’s mother, Joyce, was my aunt — my mom’s sister and best friend. She passed unexpectedly in 2004, and Susan began to harden. Life was coming at her from many directions — a growing daughter and a military man living the transient military life, war, and running a farm.
We were adrift from each other for many years. By the time her father died in 2015, we were at the most distant. I could barely feel her as a part of my life, but I have a distinct memory of hugging her in the reception line at the funeral. She was stiff, yet put together with perfection — as she always was. I squeezed her hard and felt her body give with the grief she had been holding back for eleven years since her mom had died.
Her facade was cracked, and I began to see the girl she used to be.
I reached out to her from time to time, and life wouldn’t slow down enough for the connection we needed. It wasn’t until this past year that we found time to connect again.
We now meet weekly and share a few hours reflecting on who we are, where we’ve been, the many lessons we’ve learned, and how we plan to deal with the future.
The space we have created together is healing — food for our weary souls — and a reminder of who we are in worlds that did not turn out as expected. We tell stories that define our lives and challenge ourselves with the openness I have needed.
Yes, there are tears and then bouts of hysterical laughter that have been a staple in our relationship from day one. I see her allowing the pain to be released in a safe place before going back into a hectic life and responsibilities.
Last week Susan came by and shared her breakthrough with her granddaughter. We sat on the deck and looked at the barren trees against the crispness that only comes in fall. A core memory was about to happen for both of us.
Susan keeps an immaculate home and takes care of her things. On a chaotic night at her home, where all three grandchildren and her daughter were unexpectedly hanging out for the evening, she found herself frantically preparing sandwiches that suited all the requests from the little ones while her daughter completed an online class.
They went outside to watch an amazing sunset. Her granddaughter was in the swing. Being a child, she began swinging right and left as well as back and forth. She hit the wall several times, and Susan had to scold her for it. At the same time, her grandson jumped on the swing and sent it against the wall yet again.
Susan began to tear up. Her dam was breaking.
Instead of leaving the moment in uncomfortable discipline, she decided to share why she was so protective of a swing, something that can be easily replaced.
She looked into her granddaughter’s eyes, allowing herself to be vulnerable. She shared the reason why she was protective of the swing and why it was special to her: Her husband bought it for her right before her mother died.
Her mother’s death was prolonged and excruciating to witness. Susan found herself working days and spending evenings by her mother’s side. Bill, her husband, would always be in that swing waiting for her to get home safely. It kept her going and was a beacon for her.
Her granddaughter listened to her intently and put her arms around Susan’s neck to comfort her. That moment of vulnerability with her grandchild offered Susan another moment of healing, and understanding and was a healthy, emotional education for a child who has yet to experience grief herself.
As she told me the story, we were both in tears and let them flow. It was as necessary as any wound that refused to heal until it was cleaned out and tended. For me and Susan, this was a moment we needed — a nexus — this fall, on my back porch. •
