My nephew-sons like to have their sheets & blankets swished over them — it was a bedtime routine that my brother called “a big whoosh.”  Tonight, after I gave him a big whoosh, No. 4 asked me to tuck him in tightly “like Daddy used to.” It caught me off-guard when he mentioned that other little bedtime routine of my brother’s, where you tuck the blanket around the kid like a burrito, because I had forgotten about it.

He speaks of Daddy occasionally, but it’s usually the same type of stories that we talk about often — like how he was so strong, he could pick up the boys with one arm and lift them up to the ceiling! It makes me happy when they talk about other stories and share their memories.

After I leaned over to kiss him goodnight, I straightened up and whacked my head on the underneath side of the bunkbed. Ouch! I rubbed my head, kissed and hugged No. 3 on the top bunk, and turned out the light as I left their room.

Then, the thought occurred to me: reminiscing hurts. Sometimes, grief-filled memories hit me upside the head [thankfully, not quite as literally as tonight’s unwelcome example]. Yet, if the grief were to go away entirely, wouldn’t it mean that the memories had vanished, also?

In that case, I’ll embrace the grief. Reminiscing hurts, but I can’t bear to forget.