The First Time I Cried Again

Today was my son's first day of school. The summer is over.

And maybe that's why I'm remembering another ending—August through October 2017, when we found out my dad's cancer would take him fast. That was my first real experience with grief. Two years later, my brother died suddenly, right as summer began. By the time I could breathe again, summer was gone.

When the Rain Finally Came

I didn't cry at first. Shock held me. Then one night, in the hot, smoky Seattle summer of 2019, the rain finally came. I heard it against the window and felt relief. And I cried again.

These lyrics came out of that moment:

The long heat is over
The summer's gone
I'm never sober
Been drunk too long
But I crawled back
Out in the fields
In your green
It all became so clear

And I cry again
I cry again
Rain and rain and rain
And I cry again

The Seasons of Grief

Grief is like that—not linear, but seasonal. It's rough because of how sudden and tragic it was (my brother had been doing better, we thought). I'm still not "recovered" from it all when I think about it. And I can't look at my son without seeing my brother's reflection.

Even if I get better
The sun won't shine forever
Autumn just
Will never leave us
"The summer will return"
"I don't believe you"
And I cry again

For me, it was the rain. The ordinary miracle of the weather breaking, giving my nervous system permission to finally release what it had been holding.

Connects to: [[grief/2025-10-14--the-weight-of-an-empty-chair]], [[grief/2025-11-03--grief-is-a-neural-process]], [[2025-10-10--on-space-and-small-signals]]