The first time I cried in public, other than the days proximal to Chris’ death, was at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The customer service agent explained that I could receive a refund for a portion of my husband’s vehicle registration if I turned in his license plate. She flipped the form across the counter with certainty that I would be filling it out. What appeared to be a simple task to her instantly had memories flashing before my eyes. In a whisper, so quietly I had to repeat myself, I asked her to confirm the plate number.

The tears flowed down my face and I couldn’t stop them. Indeed, that alphanumeric ID represented nearly half of my life with Chris. The vehicles may no longer be in my possession but the plate was a piece of them, a piece of Chris, and a piece of the life that we lived together.

I was first introduced to the license plate beginning with the letters “ETS” when I began dating Chris. There were a lot of road trips in that silver Volkswagen Golf and with time, I inherited the vehicle. That little standard shift diesel golf took me to the drilling rigs of Pennsylvania where I could squeeze into any tight space nestled among the lifted pick up trucks. I was the small fish in a big sea until my ground clearance and tire size also grew with my confidence and I required more off-road capabilities. The license plate resurfaced years later when the Texas plates were removed from our vehicles and Chris pridefully, snapping pictures, affixed the Nova Scotia one to his car. That was it, it was official, we were finally home.

These tears brought by grief are different for me. My lip does not quiver, I don’t get the lump in my throat as I struggle to hold them back, nothing I can do will stop them, and I hardly feel them coming. The grief tears just start flowing, out of nowhere a great deluge, as if a water dam breaks loose down my face.

I’m too sad to care, it’s a little bit awkward, I wish it wasn’t happening, and everyone around me feels uncomfortable. Everything becomes painful and it is difficult to recover the day that has now been marked a “bad” one.

I thought I was doing well with my grief. I was actually almost feeling guilty about how well I was doing. How was I going to maintain a blog centered around grief if I am coping as well as I am?

I was naive, and I learned a lesson today; grief is not linear. Grief comes in waves and will knock you off your feet. Everyone says these things, but I was yet to experience the full force of it in the way that I did.

I had the baby at a doctor’s appointment today. A visit to this office felt uncomfortable for me directly after Chris’ death and therefore Mary was two months overdue for her immunizations. I have had the children at several appointments lately and expected this one to be routine as well, but instead, I struggled to cope with the downtime in the waiting room. I had come here many times with Chris as a pregnant woman, with our babies, or accompanying Chris while he was sick. This was the first time I have visited since his death.

An older gentleman sat adjacent to me, we exchanged smiles and then his attention turned to Mary. He admired her and she brought him enjoyment. When I watched the smile cross this old man’s face the barrage of tears happened again for me, without warning and under no control.

I do not know this man’s life nor the struggles he has faced but what I do know is that for this instance, I was witnessing bliss. Written across his face I see reminiscent feelings of times long gone and the pureness that Mary represents is thrilling.

My husband will never be old and look back on the beauty of life the way this man has.

His wife joins him and I get a glimpse into their lives. She explained that they raised 5 children of their own and were now not only grandparents but they were great grandparents as well. This loving elderly couple had had a lifetime surrounded by babies with, “too many to count,” but loved every minute of it. The woman wanted to know if I would be having anymore.

There isn’t a piece of that story that doesn’t sting deeply. Perhaps I will grow old and have these experiences, I will watch my children mature, I will watch the next generation flourish, and I will look on with awe as my aging mind becomes wiser and more appreciative of a simplistic child. I hope to do all of these things, but it does not leave my mind for a second that I will be doing them without Chris by my side.

As I am moving throughout society, it is the older couples that are the most difficult encounters for me. Everything that should have been but will never be.