If I could write a poem to end this year it would be “2024 You Shouldn’t Have. Really.” A year that started with the words anticipate and restore did not live up to my expectations. There was waiting and healing, and I honestly thought the worst was over when my husband got laid off in July. But the year is ending with a fresh wound. Because, and I still have trouble believing it, my dad died on my twelfth wedding anniversary in November. Looking back, I can hold onto memories like pinning on his boutonniere, our smiles mirrored in each other’s faces. I remember the words he spoke to give me away and the scriptures we asked our parents to read in the ceremony. But the day a dozen years later, surrounding him with all my love as he so peacefully took his last breath was bitter.
I wrote his obituary, and then nothing else, until, in the haze of grieving I remembered that I help lead a writing group at my library and the prompt for the month was lemons. So fifteen minutes before I went, I scribbled down the poem I’ll leave you with here and not the words dripping in sarcasm the other poem would have been. When life hands you lemons— you know the rest. But how? How do you cut the moments that sour you, squeeze out every last drop, and add water and sugar? Just put in the effort, cover with sweetness, and have a delicious drink? Maybe life doesn’t want lemonade. What if life gives you lemons to cradle in your hand and notice each tiny crater, feel every bump of yellow skin before it becomes zest? What if instead of disguising its flavor we squeeze a drop into the everyday moments and see how it changes the palate.
In the coming year, I will write about the kindness this time has also brought, and maybe I will even get back to working on my book. (It’s been a while.) There is still restoring to do and things to anticipate, but tonight I’ll hold my figurative lemon and contemplate how it will flavor my year.
Whether you are sprinting, dancing, walking, or limping to the end of this year, I thank you for being here and reading my words. Sharing any of my posts is a gift I appreciate.
Such a good reminder, Jill. There is freedom in allowing the lemon juice to color our human experience.